


Something Telling (Between Then and Now)

by dannyPURO



Series: Something Telling [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cultural Differences, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 99,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyPURO/pseuds/dannyPURO
Summary: On a hot summer's day in 1832, Enjolras, alone on the barricades and staring down the barrel of far too many muskets, makes the coward's choice. He falls backwards through an open window, eyes clenched shut.On a hot summer's day in 2019, Grantaire is walking home from work when he bumps into some guy in a fucking waistcoat, of all things.AKA, the time travel AU, featuring cultural differences, Enjolras learning how to have friends, and Grantaire trying his fucking best.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Something Telling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912858
Comments: 418
Kudos: 852





	1. Chapter 1

Don’t get Grantaire wrong-- it’s not like he hates all change, or anything.

Honest.

Really.

It’s just…

Okay, it’s like this: he doesn’t hate change, it’s just that he’s thought about it a lot and he’s come to the scientific conclusion that a majority of the change that happens to and around him just tends to be kind of shitty. Just statistically. 

Statistically, when people recommend a new restaurant to him, it tends to not be quite as good as one that he would have chosen himself. Statistically, new leadership at work tends to mean nothing but a more strictly enforced dress code. Statistically, renovations are really just disruptive and loud and hardly necessary in the first place. The disdain which he holds is scientifically-backed and firmly cemented.

(The one exception, he supposes, to his policy on change, is the museum in which he works. He knows every sculpture, every painting, by heart, on account of him being paid to watch them and ensure their security, and while he certainly gets annoyed when one of them gets loaned out to another museum, he-- He kind of likes it when they put a new temporary exhibit in. Once it’s up, he stays late after his shift and takes off his security jacket and goes through the gallery slowly, taking it all in, getting to know it. Grantaire supposes that that sort of change isn’t too bad.)

Anyways.

He’s going somewhere with this, honest.

He doesn’t mind, of course. It’s not like he’s craving some monumental change for the better. Hell, he kind of likes his life the way it is. He doesn’t really want anything interesting to happen. He is extremely content to wake up each day, drink his coffee, go to work, come home, and work on whatever painting he’s working on for a few hours with a glass of wine in hand. He’s known the same eight people (Marius came later and doesn’t really count) for years, now, and he loves them, and he’s worked the security shift at the museum for nearly as long and while he wouldn’t say that he  _ loves _ his job, it certainly has its perks. 

But, yeah. Life is nice enough. He doesn’t really have any interest in any of the following: grand aspirations, storybook romances, or deep investment in anything at all. 

Jehan’s told him that they think that’s a little sad, but honestly, it’s just not his cup of tea. He just wants to go home and paint and drink that nice wine Joly got him. He’s going to, too, is the thing, as soon as he walks home from from the Metro station, except for the thing that he was really getting to with all of this, which is-

Which is, he thinks--and he stares down at the man that he had run into only moments prior, and run into hard, sending the poor guy reeling and sprawling back onto the concrete and landing sharp and jarring--the overwhelming sense of dread inherent in the fact that, for some reason he just can’t place, he’s got the horrible, sinking feeling that he has just gotten himself wrapped up in something, God fucking forbid,  _ new.  _

Grantaire looks down at the man at his feet. He is blonde, first of all, with his curls all amuss and dampened with a strange, reddish grime. His gaze lingers somewhere south of Grantaire’s knees, so Grantaire can catch no more than a glimpse of a strong nose and smooth, unbearded skin. He is also dressed more curiously than nearly anyone Grantaire has ever seen; he looks as though he has stepped straight out of a historical reenactment, or perhaps one of the paintings in the museum. (And then thrown down a rocky hill, perhaps, to account for the battered nature of the pants, of the vest, of the… would that be called a waistcoat? Grantaire isn’t quite sure.) 

He does not seem well.

He-

He looks up at Grantaire. 

He looks up at Grantaire, and, just like that, Grantaire can’t breathe. He is confronted with fine features and sharp cheekbones and serious eyes and a nasty-looking cut on his forehead, and  _ God,  _ but he’s beautiful. And he looks more terrified than anyone Grantaire has ever met. 

Grantaire has the horrible feeling that he isn’t going to have much time for painting and wine tonight. He takes a moment to confront that reality, horrible as it may well be, then reaches down, because the man isn’t making any effort to get up on his own. 

He doesn’t take Grantaire’s hand. He also doesn’t seem to notice the fact that it’s there, and Grantaire is feeling a little concerned. 

“You good?” Grantaire asks, and he says it softly, soft as he can, but the man still jolts to look at him as though he’d shouted. “I should’ve watched where I was walking, sorry, man.”

The man is staring at him. His gaze seems unfocused--Grantaire figures he’s either concussed or way too high. He’s kind of hoping for the second option, but… that cut on his forehead doesn’t look too great, in all honesty. Mainly, Grantaire just hopes that he isn’t about to get robbed or something. 

“Dude?” he asks.

The man moves. Not to take Grantaire’s proffered hand, but look down at his own in the unsteady streetlight. They are scraped bloody, torn up at the heel in a way that makes Grantaire’s gut twist in sympathy. “I-” Grantaire hopes that that didn’t happen when he fell, just now, but there’s really no saying, either way, and- “I don’t know where I am.”

Oh, Christ.

Honestly, Christ.

Grantaire scrubs a hand through his hair and takes a few deep, slow breaths. “Okay,” he says, and his brain is racing about a million kilometers an hour trying to figure out what the fuck you say to that. “Is there anyone I can call for you, maybe? Someone who could come pick you up?”

“Someone you could…” he echoes, then blinks up at Grantaire. “I don’t know where I am,” he says, again. His eyes are still impossibly wide. Impossibly wide, impossibly frightened, and Grantaire finds himself crouching down beside him, common sense be damned. 

“Listen, man, what’s your name?”

The man extends a hand. It is trembling, and delicate--he reminds Grantaire very much of a bird. “Enjolras,” he says. 

Grantaire shakes his hand gingerly. He tries his hardest not to touch the raw edge of his palm, but he comes away with a hint of blood on his own hand, anyways. He wipes it on the leg of his pants. “Grantaire.”

“A pleasure,” says Enjolras faintly. His hand lingers there, in the air, for just a few moments too long after Grantaire has dropped his hold. 

Grantaire doesn’t think he can help but to feel kind of fucking worried about this guy. He’s not sure he  _ wants  _ to help but to feel worried. He kind of wants to call Joly right about now. That head injury seems like it might be kind of serious. Maybe he should take him to a hospital. “Listen, Enjolras,” he starts. “Listen, where are you from? Where are you staying?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I-” he shakes his head again--to clear it, maybe. His voice is scraped rough and raw, as though he had been shouting, but it’s hard to imagine him raising his voice past a soft murmur, right about now. “I am from Paris.”

It’s Grantaire’s turn to stare, now. “Paris.”

“Is it far?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire would be angry at him for wasting his time on a joke, only… Only Enjolras doesn’t look very much like he’s joking around. He’s still got that pained, frightened look on his face; he’s still casting fluttering, tentative glances about himself as though he’s never seen concrete before, as though he’s never seen streetlights or anything.

Honestly, fine. “This is Paris,” Grantaire says--slow, so that Enjolras understands. Grantaire isn’t super confident in his informational processing abilities right now. “Do you need me to take you to a hospital?”

“No!”

Enjolras blurts that out fast, sharp, just a bit too loud in the relative silence. Grantaire, for a moment, is just as stunned as Enjolras himself. “No,” he says, again--softer, now, but just as urgent. “No, please, you mustn’t.”

“I-” Grantaire swallows. He is reminded, yet again, of why he is generally opposed to interesting things; he is reminded that he has no fucking idea what to do here; he is brought to shock by the flash of something other than utter confusion in Enjolras’s eyes. “You- You’re sure?”

“I cannot go to the hospital.” Enjolras has ceased his looking about himself--his gaze is trained on Grantaire and Grantaire alone. “Please, Grantaire, do not take me there.”

He pauses. His legs burn in the interim--he has lost track of how long he has been crouched here beside this stranger. He bites his lip. (He really should bring him to see a doctor, he’s clearly not thinking straight, he might be seriously hurt, and God, if something happened, if-)

“Please,” Enjolras says. His voice cracks.

(Grantaire shouldn’t even care about this guy, why is it his business if he wants to stay concussed and bloody on the street? Who is Grantaire to meddle all up in his business? Why should he care? Why should he-)

Grantaire reaches out a hand, brushes his fingers over the dark stain in Enjolras’s fair hair. They come away sticky, dark. Bloody. Shockingly warm. “You’re hurt,” he hears himself say, as if it hadn’t been obvious since the moment he saw him. 

Enjolras reaches up to feel his own scalp, an echo of Grantaire’s motion. There is a long, long pause before he speaks again. “I fell from the window,” he murmurs. 

Grantaire looks up. The windows are all shut tight, the shutters drawn. 

(The blood on his fingertips is so warm.)

He makes a decision.

“Okay,” Grantaire says, hauling himself to his feet and extending a hand. “No hospital, as long as you let me patch you up.”

He frowns. “Patch me up?” he echoes. 

“Somebody needs to, if you want to stick around for more than a few hours.” He reasserts his outstretched hand. 

Enjolras, thank the Lord, takes it. He stumbles, when Grantaire hefts him up by his grip and a hand at his armpit, just a bit too much for comfort, and his head lolls just a bit too loosely, but, at the very least, he is up. “Where are we going?” he asks.

Grantaire takes a moment, just to try-- He lets go, just for a second, in the hopes that Enjolras will walk steady on his own once his feet are beneath him and on solid ground, but he veers off, starts to crumble from the knees up, and Grantaire hauls an arm over his shoulder and pulls him close again. “Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, around the strand of Enjolras’s hair that found its way into his mouth in the shift. He spits it out. “My apartment, it’s not too far.”

“Oh,” he says.

They keep walking. 

There’s- There’s a strange smell, lingering heavy on Enjolras’s waistcoat and clinging to his curls. It’s odd, familiar,  _ metallic _ , almost. Grantaire can’t quite place it. It’s like… fireworks, maybe, or charcoal. He catches it at the turn of Enjolras’s head, when his hair brushes close past Grantaire’s face, but the source evades him. 

In any case.

Grantaire wasn’t lying, really--they weren’t far from his apartment at all. Enjolras is lighter than he’d been expecting, delicate to the touch but a steady weight leaning against him--and even with him there, it isn’t long before they’re at the stoop of the building, Grantaire keying in the code, Enjolras gazing, wide-eyed, at everything and nothing at all. 

He’s got the feeling that Enjolras probably needs to sit down.

At the very least, he’s got the feeling that Enjolras probably isn’t feeling very up to climbing five flights of stairs, right now.

They take the elevator. Grantaire likes to take the elevator on general policy, just on account of the fact that it’s usually out of order, and that he feels a little obligated to use it when it’s functional, in order to extract maximum profit from his lease. He stares out the grates and contemplates his landlord. Enjolras stares out the grates and holds tight to Grantaire’s arm.

Once they’re inside--once Grantaire has unlocked the door and hit the lights and dropped all of his work stuff vaguely out of the way and scraped his hair out of his eyes--he leaves Enjolras in the kitchen. He feels a little bad about it, honestly, what with the brusque way he placed him against the counter, but the thing is, he  _ knows  _ he has a first aid kit around here somewhere, Joly got it for him as a housewarming gift, it’s just that he can’t quite remember where he shoved it out of the way to. And it’s a little hard to scramble around the apartment looking for medical supplies with Enjolras trailing after him like a half-deflated balloon. 

The first aid kit was, apparently, under the bed, behind some spare canvases. Go figure.

He returns to the kitchen, kit in hand and dust in hair, to find Enjolras right where he left him, backed up against the counter and looking considerably worse under the bright light of LED-against-tile. There is fresh bruising, red and raw, mottling his skin, and his hair is caked with blood--clotting with it. His hands are filthy, even beside the scraped flesh and blood, with little bits of gravel and splinters of wood at the worst bits, and he holds them close to his chest. (God, they must sting.)

(Grantaire has to take a minute, just to breathe deep and lean against the doorway and brace himself. He hadn’t- He hadn’t known it was this bad.)

He is looking at the dishes in Grantaire’s sink. Grantaire feels a rush of embarrassment for not having done them that past morning until he remembers that Enjolras is filthy and wearing a fucking museum exhibit on a Tuesday night.

He pulls himself back to attention, shakes the first aid kit lightly. “Found it.” He smiles as best as he can manage.

Enjolras gives him a vague, tight smile in return. Grantaire won’t lie--it’s pretty lovely, all the same. 

“Right,” Grantaire says, as though he hadn’t just thought that. He fumbles through the kit for alcohol swabs and gauze and medical tape. “Wash your hands off, there, real quick.” 

The medical tape is wedged in a corner--it takes some extraction. When he looks up, Enjolras hasn’t moved.

“Wash-”

“Yeah, man, you’re pretty fucking filthy, just give them a rinse.”

He’s still looking at him blankly. “Where is your washstand?”

“My-” Christ, Grantaire doesn’t think he can deal with  _ washstands _ right now. He reaches over to the sink, turns on the water, lets it run for a few moments to warm up. When he turns back, Enjolras is gaping. “Here, just-” he takes Enjolras by one wrist, pulls him over, puts his hands under the flow, and-

Enjolras jolts. “It’s warm.”

Grantaire frowns--he hadn’t thought it would be too hot, honest, but maybe- 

“How is it warm?” Enjolras asks, voice hushed. He’s not washing his hands, not really, he’s just kind of watching the water sweep the dirt and blood away. 

He sighs. (Christ, maybe this was a bad idea.) “The boiler, man, I don’t know, just-” he tugs one of Enjolras’s hands out from under the water, blots it dry with a paper towel. It’s not as bad as he’d thought, he figures, now that the wound is clean, but Grantaire still doesn’t envy the guy. He tears open an alcohol swab and takes Enjolras’s hand in his own and-

And as soon as he touches the swab to the wound, Enjolras jolts his hand back close, fast as anything. “What are you doing?”

God, what’s wrong with this guy? “It’s just alcohol.” He scrubs his free hand over his face. “I just need to disinfect it.”

Enjolras bites his lip. Bites his lip, and looks Grantaire over for a good, long while, and then slowly, tentatively, extends his hand. “That is fine,” he says. “I do not understand what’s happening.” He whispers it, that last part, as though it were a secret. A secret, and an admission, and a statement of defeat, and something in Grantaire’s heart just wrenches a little. Fuck, fine, whatever.

He takes Enjolras’s hand in his own, gentle as anything he’s ever done. “It’ll sting a bit,” he warns. 

He nods. 

When Grantaire dabs at the scrape, Enjolras winces, but he doesn’t tug his hand away.

It isn’t until Grantaire is bandaging his other hand, wrapping it carefully in gauze and taping it, just like the first, that Enjolras speaks again. He nearly misses it, that’s how soft it comes. “What does the alcohol do?”

Grantaire wishes he were annoyed by the question. He isn’t. His night is already so fucking bizarre. Maybe there’s something to do with the earnest look in Enjolras’s eyes that’s starting to grow on him. “Kills the germs, you know? So it doesn’t get infected, get worse, all that.”

“Oh.” Enjolras doesn’t really look like he understands. Grantaire’s pretty sure he’s been concussed to all high hell, though, so he figures he ought to cut him a little slack. 

He finishes bandaging Enjolras’s hands and finds himself standing there, holding on, for just a moment too long. He wants to kick himself, honestly, because he probably shouldn’t have even taken Enjolras back to his apartment, let alone be holding his  _ hand _ . He releases Enjolras’s hand with a pat that even he admits is awkward. 

Never mind.

He wets a paper towel and starts wiping at the blood caught in Enjolras’s hair and the dirt on his face. He really wishes he could shove him into the shower, or something, if only to get it all out, but he’s pretty sure Enjolras isn’t quite up to that right now, if his reaction to the sink and the way he’s leaning heavy against the counter are any indication. He might fall and get, like, a double-concussion, or something. Grantaire’s pretty sure those are really bad, or something. He keeps at it with the paper towel. “So,” he says, because he figures the whole  _ figuring-out-who-the-hell-this-guy-is  _ thing is worth at least another shot, “Where are you from?”

Enjolras brushes Grantaire’s hand away in a motion that is jarringly lucid, meets Grantaire’s gaze. His eyes are honest, wide. “Grantaire,” he says, and, in an instant, he sounds more solemn, more serious, than Grantaire has ever heard another person sound. “I believe that something very peculiar has befallen me.”

“Oh?”

Enjolras lets his hand drift back to his lap. 

Grantaire resumes his ministrations.

Enjolras sighs, slumps a little. “You think me mad.”

He wets a new paper towel, tosses the old one somewhere off to the side. Honestly, he  _ wishes  _ he thought Enjolras was crazy, utterly and completely. It would certainly make a lot of things a lot less complicated, it’s just…

He’s not so sure. 

In any case,  _ mad _ is hardly the worst thing for a person to be. Grantaire is half mad, he feels, more often than not. “Are you?” he asks.

Enjolras stays silent as Grantaire washes away the last of the blood and the grime. The cut isn’t quite as bad as he’d feared--Joly must’ve known his shit when he’d said that head wounds bleed a lot--but it’s still pretty considerable, and it was still pretty filthy just moments before.

He tears open another alcohol swab. “It’ll sting, again,” he warns, and Enjolras just tilts his head for Grantaire to daub at the wound. 

Neither of them speak again until Grantaire has cleared the swab and the paper towels into the trash and is nearly done taping a gauze pad to his forehead. 

Enjolras, then, blinks his eyes open. They’re a little damp--whether it’s from the pain or from something else, Grantaire can’t say. He figures it’s most polite not to ask. “Grantaire,” he says, and he clears his throat. “You have been very kind. Thank you.”

He nods absently, stacking the gauze and the tape and the extra alcohol swabs back into the first aid kit, and it isn’t until he’s turned back around that he sees that Enjolras has brushed himself off and begun to make for the kitchen doorway. “Wh- Where are you going?”

Enjolras frowns. “I suppose that remains up in the air. I should thank you again, however; you have done as you promised, and done me a large favor in doing so, and-” he fades off, shrugs. It’s a strange gesture, stilted, wonderfully informal in comparison to the rest of him, but that’s not-

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Grantaire isn’t quite sure how it  _ is _ supposed to go, mind, but- but it’s not this. Surely not this, surely not Enjolras stumbling back onto the street in this state, where- where-”Do you have somewhere you can go?” he blurts out. “A hotel, an apartment, something?”

“We have established that I do not.” It’s sharp, just for a moment. And then he curls in on himself once more, looks down at his bandaged hands. “I have weathered worse, you needn’t worry.”

“You needn’t-” Grantaire catches himself, shakes Enjolras’s strange turn of phrase, tries again. “You don’t have to,” he hears himself say. 

They both stop. 

Grantaire can’t believe himself, sometimes. Honestly, what’s his problem? “You could stay the night here. Sort yourself out,” he says, which is a good way to get robbed, and possibly stabbed.

Enjolras blinks at him.

Fuck, in for a penny, in for a pound. “There’s not much point in me patching you up just for you to get yourself in trouble again.”

And-

And it takes a few moments, but something tense and straight and rigid in Enjolras’s posture kind of… breaks, almost, just as he clenches his jaw and lets his gaze drop to somewhere near the ground. “I-” his voice cracks. “You-” he swallows, Grantaire can see it in his throat, and then he looks back up, and Grantaire can’t be sure, but he thinks that his eyes look just a little bit damper than before. “Are you certain?” he asks. 

He shrugs. (If he had any doubts, they’d be gone, anyways. He can’t have doubts like those when Enjolras is looking at him as though he’d just offered up a spot in a lifeboat instead of a twin bed in a spare room. He isn’t very used to being looked at like that.) “Sure.”

“Oh.” Enjolras scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, takes a deep breath. “Thank you, I-” he begins rifling through his pockets as he speaks- “I can pay you, it’s only right, let me-” He ignores Grantaire’s protests, pushes a strange, heavy coin into his hand. “Please.”

Grantaire doesn’t even take the time to open his hand and look at the coin before he’s handing it back to Enjolras. God, but he can’t take Enjolras’s money. “Don’t worry about it.”

Enjolras sets the coin on the counter, anyways, painfully resolute. 

Whatever. Grantaire can give it back to him in the morning. 

“Look,” Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “Can I get you something to eat?” He doesn’t want to, like, embarrass Enjolras, or anything, but he’s pretty hungry, himself, and…

And honestly, Enjolras looks like he might need a good meal. He’s a little bony, yeah, but mostly he just seems kind of… hungry. There’s that kind of look in his eyes.

Enjolras takes a moment to look horribly, horribly conflicted before he speaks. “You don’t mind?”

“I could do with some dinner, anyways.” He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Enjolras says  _ no _ , he doesn’t want Grantaire’s food,  _ no, actually _ , he won’t stay. 

He doesn’t even know why he fucking cares, aside from the way he can’t stop looking at Enjolras, can’t stop watching him. (Not in a creepy way, God, just… whatever.)

Enjolras just lets out a heavy breath, lets his shoulders drop a fraction of a degree. “Thank you,” he says again. He’s picking at the tape on his hands as he speaks, scratching at the gauze, and Grantaire wants to tell him to stop but doesn’t.

Grantaire puts the kettle on to boil and herds Enjolras out of the kitchen, instead. He-

He, Christ, he kind of just needs a break right now, alright? All of this is kind of a lot. Enjolras is kind of a lot, what with his fucking waistcoat and his fucking hair and his fucking genuine eyes.

God, he just wanted to go home and relax and drink a glass of wine.

He-

Enjolras is speaking, he realizes, and he blinks, draws himself back to attention. “What?”

He, Enjolras, clears his throat. “I said, you have a lovely apartment.” He lets Grantaire herd him to sit at the table.

Grantaire bites the inside of his cheek. His cheeks are hot, ruddy-feeling, and he’s pretty fucking sure that Enjolras doesn’t look such a fucking mess when he blushes. If he blushes. (Does Enjolras blush?) “Thanks.” 

He hurries back to the kitchen. 

The water isn’t boiled yet, of course it isn’t. He leans back against the counter and rubs a hand over his face and wonders what the fuck he’s doing, and wonders what the fuck  _ else  _ he could be expected to do. 

Enjolras is silent, in the other room--there is no creak of floorboards, no scuff of chair legs pulled back, no nothing. 

Grantaire gathers himself and gathers two cups of ramen from the top of his fridge, too. Maybe Enjolras is expecting something nicer; maybe, if that is the case, Enjolras ought to lower his fucking standards. In Grantaire’s humble opinion, he is handling this a lot better than he could be expected to. 

The water boils. Grantaire makes the ramen and sets the timer on his phone, but watches it so closely that he ends it himself before it sounds, too harsh and jarring in the quiet of the evening. 

When he brings the instant ramen and two forks and two paper napkins to the table, Enjolras is dozing on the tabletop, head slumped forward over his folded arms; his curls are golden, even in the shade of the room, and tumbling to hide his face. And then Grantaire sets everything down, and-

And he jolts awake, sudden as anything, and there’s this… this  _ moment _ , there--just a split second, really--when Grantaire watches a bright hot fear and fury,  _ searing _ , flit across his features. With it comes a heart-wrenching bewilderment, like back on the sidewalk, and then-

And then the tension drops from his shoulders, and his shoulders drop from where they’ve been pulled up taught, and Enjolras quirks an awkward little smile, and Grantaire can only think about that for a few good long moments. 

He clears his throat and goes to pour them both a glass of water. 

Upon his return, Enjolras is holding a fork up to the sparse light. 

“What, you want chopsticks?” he hears himself say. 

Enjolras sets the fork down with a start. “I-” He straightens the fork, where he’d set it down crooked. “I assure you, I am more than satisfied. Apologies.” He is scratching at the gauze, again. (Grantaire wants him to stop. He’s going to make it worse.) “Thank you.”

Grantaire sits down across from him. Whatever. At the very least, he figures, Enjolras is crazy and  _ pleasant _ and  _ polite _ . (Enjolras is watching him intently. He appears to be waiting for Grantaire to begin eating before he does the same.)

He digs into the ramen and watches, through the steam, as Enjolras goes for a tentative bite. The noodles seem to evade him--they keep slipping off his fork and back into the broth. And then he does get a bite, despite his awkward efforts, and he-

He-

He  _ freezes,  _ almost, fork midway between bowl and mouth, and he lets out a noise that Grantaire can only qualify as well and truly  _ obscene.  _

He flushes, a moment later, a dark and furious pink. (That’s one question answered, at least.) He keeps his gaze fixed on his noodles. “I apologize,” he chokes out. 

Grantaire is mostly just trying to contain his laughter to a respectable degree. He is mostly just trying to steady whatever it is that is fluttering in his chest.

“I apologize,” Enjolras says again. “I- I believe that this is the best food that I have ever eaten in all of my life.”

And oh, man, Grantaire stops laughing real fast at that. Because, right. Right, this isn’t normal. Something is wrong. Something’s happened, and Grantaire can’t just enjoy his fucking dinner with a beautiful man, he has to  _ fix _ something before his heart gives out.

Fuck.

God, fuck, maybe Enjolras grew up in a cult, or something weird like that. He doesn’t really seem…  _ right.  _ Maybe-

He doesn’t know what the hell is up with this guy, but he’s got the aching, stifling urge to pull him tight and wrap him up in a hug and order in some real food for him, good food. 

He doesn’t, of course. But he wants to.

Maybe he’ll bring Courfeyrac around if he ever runs into Enjolras again. Courfeyrac would have him in a hug with food on the way in about forty-five seconds.

Fuck.

(Enjolras is still eating, bent over the cup of noodles but glancing up, every few seconds, as though checking for something, or perhaps just in self-conscious apology for his sudden lack of etiquette.)

“It’s just ramen,” Grantaire chokes out, because if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll- he’ll--

“Ramen?”

“Well, like, instant ramen.” He taps his cup with his fork and Enjolras, for the first time, seems to notice the writing upon it, the design. Grantaire keeps talking. “Real ramen tastes better, I promise, but I didn’t feel like actually cooking, and it would take too long to order anything, so-”

“You made this?” Enjolras cuts him off, then flushes, then grits his jaw, as though thoroughly annoyed with his cheeks for pinkening. 

“Through technicality.”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to get his joke. 

Grantaire takes a breath. “The noodles, the broth and everything, it starts out dry. I just added hot water and it makes it into soup again. Takes about two minutes.”

Enjolras looks down at his ramen in awe. “That’s incredible.” He takes another bite. “Is it Italian?”

He shakes his head. “Japanese.” When he looks up, Enjolras is staring at him. “What?”

“Have they opened the ports?”

What? “What?”

Enjolras sets his fork down. “Japan. Have they opened the ports again?”

What? Seriously, seriously, what? He racks his brain for any lingering hint of knowledge retained from his history courses. “What, from the fucking nineteenth century? Yeah, they’ve opened up the ports since then, it’s only been a century and a half, there.” Christ, what- Is he thinking of another country, or something? Did whatever fucking cult he belonged use textbooks from two hundred years ago?

He looks to Enjolras for further explanation, only-

Enjolras is staring at him, all stricken-like. “You-”

Grantaire waits, but Enjolras doesn’t continue, so he prods, just a little. “Yeah?”

“You’re-” He swallows, Grantaire can see it in his throat. “You’re making a joke, aren’t you?”

He frowns. “Not- Not right now, man. Usually, yeah, I’m all over that, but I’m not kidding, or anything. You’re not doing too well, I wouldn’t-”

Enjolras drops his gaze to the half-finished cup-noodles in front of him. “A century and a half, you said?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, though he’s not quite sure where this is going. “Since they opened the ports, give or take a while. I don’t really remember, not exactly.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and then he doesn’t say anything else for a long time.

Grantaire makes the bed in the guest room with fresh sheets and the quilt that Jehan made him before they moved out and the best pillow, taken from his own bed. 

Enjolras is in the bathroom, still. Grantaire had given him the spare toothbrush from the cabinet, and, after catching a glimpse of the look of sheer confusion on Enjolras’s face in the mirror, given a slightly less perfunctory tour. Where the flush is--it’s a little hard to find, anyways. How to turn on the sink. Where the soap is. He’d felt stupid, but only up until a little of the tension sapped from Enjolras’s jaw.

He knocks on the door, once the bed is made. Not to- not to rush him, or anything, just- “Enjolras? Are you-”

The door opens. Enjolras has scrubbed his face clean--his cheeks are clear of the lingering streaks of grime, and they’re rubbed pink, still damp. He holds the toothbrush loosely in one hand. The other is buried somewhere in his curls. “Grantaire. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, and to have looked through your cabinets, but I cannot seem to find your tooth powder anywhere.”

The toothpaste is where Grantaire always keeps it, right on the side of the sink. He reaches past Enjolras to pick it up and hand it over. “No worries,” he says, although he himself is slightly fucking worried by most aspects of the situation. “Minty fresh, go ahead.”

Enjolras stares down at the tube in his hand. “And you just-” He prods at it delicately. “How do you-”

Grantaire takes it and the toothbrush back. “It’s cool, it’s just-” He opens the cap, applies some to Enjolras’s toothbrush, then his own. “And then, like-”

Enjolras flushes, and it’s lovely, even under Grantaire’s horrible bathroom lighting. “I do know how to do it from here, thank you.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire says. It’s just a little fucking difficult to guage, all of this. (Though, his brain supplies, it is a good thing that Enjolras has been brushing his teeth, even if it is with… tooth powder? It’s better than nothing.) He puts his toothbrush in his mouth for lack of better conversation.

Enjolras does the same, and starts to brush, and then--frowns, around the toothbrush in his mouth. “It does taste of mint,” he says, voice garbled by foam. “I shan't lie, Grantaire, this is a significant improvement.”

Grantaire snorts a laugh and gets toothpaste on his chin. It’s okay, though, because--well, because, he’s not quite sure, but he thinks that Enjolras might have stifled a little laugh, too. 

He spits in the sink, rinses his mouth. “I can lend you some clothes,” he says, as Enjolras does the same. “Something to sleep in. And we can try to salvage yours, tomorrow, but until then,  _ mi ropa es tu ropa _ , right? See if we can’t pop them in the laundry and get at least some of the stains out.”

Enjolras blanches. “Oh, you needn’t- You needn’t take them to the laundry. Really. It isn’t so important as that, I can-”

“I don’t mind!” He blurts it out too loud in the quiet of the bathroom. “If- If anything, it’s really more of a favor, anyways. I’ve got clothes to wash, too, and it’ll be a bit of a test for the old washing machine, won’t it? Can’t imagine it’s ever met such a formidable foe.” (God, shut  _ up. _ ) “I don’t mind, really.”

Enjolras fidgets with the tape on his hands, but he nods. “Alright,” he says. 

Grantaire leads him to the guest room, flicks on the light. The clothes are on the bed--soft sweatpants and a tee shirt, worn with age. “They probably won’t fit right, you know, but better than sleeping naked, right?”

“Right,” Enjolras says, absently. He runs a hand over the fabric of the sweatpants. “Thank you,” he says, for the thousandth time. “Truly, Grantaire, thank you.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what he could possibly say to that, to any of anything that’s happened over the course of the evening, so he goes to his own room and sits down on his bed and puts his face in his hands.

That night, Grantaire lies awake in bed and tries not to listen to the muffled, choked out sobs from the spare bedroom. It’s a long, long time before he finds sleep.

Grantaire wakes to his second alarm. He’d been dreaming about something strange, something  _ important _ \--about golden curls, wet with blood, and the smell of gunpowder and-

He rolls over, hits snooze, and shoves his face back into his pillow, when-

Shit.

He bolts up in bed, his head spinning from the shock, but-

Right. He’d found a bloody stranger on the street and fed him ramen and taught him about running water and let him sleep in his spare bedroom last night.

And also he has to go to work, and he’s running late.

“Fuck,” he says, and he stubs his toe on his bureau as he stumbles into the hallway, because God, he’s a fucking  _ idiot,  _ isn’t he? What was he  _ thinking _ , Enjolras probably woke up hours ago and, like, stole his computer and all of his nice chef’s knives and his good coat and honestly, this is why he fucking hates new things, they always end up fucking him over, and-

And, actually, the apartment is still dark. The spare bedroom door is closed. He creeps over to it, cracks it open, and-

Enjolras lies sprawled out on the bed, drooling onto the pillow. The quilt is drawn up to his chin; one of his hands drapes over the side of the mattress, just out from under the covers. 

Grantaire cannot possibly bear to wake him. He fucking can’t, not when he looks so peaceful, not after last night.

He makes himself breakfast and calls Combeferre. Combeferre will know what to do. Combeferre’s in residency at a hospital, he knows all about concussions and head wounds and… cults? Maybe? And beautiful blondes with kind of scary eyes?

It’s worth a shot.

Combeferre picks up on the second ring, and Grantaire still has egg in his mouth. “Yeah?”

Grantaire swallows too quick, scorches his throat, coughs a little. “Listen, Ferre, are you working today?” He really, really hopes he isn’t.

“No,” says Combeferre, and honestly, Grantaire says a fucking prayer. “But look, Grantaire, I know you are, so I hope you’re not faking sick so we can go on a day trip or something, because I’m honestly not up for that today, and-”

“No!” Grantaire doesn’t know why that would be Combeferre’s first guess, anyways. “No, listen, I’ve kind of got a situation here, and I’m going to work, that’s why it’s a problem, you know?”

He can hear Combeferre sigh over the phone. “Christ, R, a situation?” 

Grantaire takes a sip of coffee, scrubs a hand over his face. “I ran into this guy when I was walking home yesterday and he had, like, a head wound, and I thought he was concussed so I kind of took him back to my place and cleaned him up and I swear, I think he just escaped a cult or something, cause he doesn’t know  _ anything _ , and he doesn’t have anywhere to go and he’s asleep in the guest room and I have to get to work but I don’t want to wake him up and can you please come over and just make sure he’s okay when he wakes up?”

There is silence on the other side of the line.

“Ferre?” Grantaire tries.

“Jesus, Grantaire.” Combeferre sounds tired. Grantaire can hear Courfeyrac say something, muffled and indistinct, in the background. 

It is, admittedly, a bit of an odd situation.

“Jesus,” Combeferre says again, but Grantaire hears him set something down on a table. “I can be there in forty minutes, is that fine?”

Grantaire lets himself breathe. Thank fucking God for Combeferre. “Yeah, that’s- that’s great. Honestly, thank you so much, cause I don’t-” he breaks off. He doesn’t fucking know what to  _ do _ .

“Want me to bring him a pastry, or something? I could swing by that nice bakery by my place on the way.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, and his voice doesn’t crack, it  _ doesn’t _ . “Thanks.”

“Okay,” says Combeferre, and his voice is soft in the way that- well, in the way that had made Grantaire want to call him in the first place. In the way that had made Grantaire think that maybe, Combeferre is what Enjolras needs right now.

(Not Grantaire. Grantaire tries, of course, but he’s also- he’s a little harsh, a little rough around the edges, and he never really knows how to do the right thing, anyways. He’s fucking  _ working  _ on it, okay, its just- Yeah.)

“Okay,” says Grantaire.

“See you in forty?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Combeferre hangs up.

Grantaire stares down at his breakfast. “Okay,” he says, to himself. He can figure this out. He can figure out what the fuck he’s going to do with all of this.

Combeferre is at his door in thirty five minutes, and Grantaire, at the very least, is showered and dressed and caffeinated. He ushers Ferre in, shuts the door as softly as he can. 

“Okay,” Grantaire says, tugging Combeferre out of the front hall. “Okay, so he’s still asleep, and he’s probably gonna freak out when he wakes up, and I don’t really know what to do? About any of this?”

Combeferre clasps a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out, man, just-” he tilts his head towards the guest room. “Can I-”

Grantaire nods, takes the bag from the bakery off his hands and sets it on the table as Combeferre cracks the door open--steady, soft.

Enjolras sleeps on, his curls sprawled over the pillow and catching the morning light. He’s snoring, a little. His mouth is open.

Combeferre shuts the door. “You think he’s in a cult?” he whispers. 

Grantaire shoves his hands in his pockets. “I think he  _ was _ in a cult. Like, a fucking weird one. One that uses tooth powder and really old textbooks.”

“Huh,” says Combeferre. “Do you want a croissant for later? I got some extras.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, because he does. What he  _ doesn’t _ want right now is to go to work. Not like he ever does, it’s just that-

It doesn’t seem right, to leave. Even with Combeferre here. At least Enjolras  _ knows _ Grantaire (vaguely). At least Grantaire knows (sort of) that Enjolras isn’t crazy, he’s just- There’s something going on, he can tell. 

His paycheck, unfortunately, does not sympathize. “Right,” he says. “Right, um, I’ll have my ringer on, if you need to- to tell me anything, or if… “ He shrugs. “It’ll be on, anyways.”

“Sure,” says Combeferre, setting his laptop down on the table.

Grantaire goes to work.

Grantaire goes to work and immediately gets called to the second floor, instead of the first, because somebody else called in sick (Grantaire wishes  _ he _ could have called in sick) and everybody’s shifts are wacked. It’s kind of nice, though--it’s nice to see a new exhibition, and it’s nice to be somewhere a little less crowded, at least for the time being. It’s an off day, despite the tourist season. 

He strolls the gallery and thinks. Really, he figures, what he ought to do is give Enjolras enough money for a few meals, offer to get in touch with someone for him, drop him off at the police station or a hospital, and carry the fuck on. That would be  _ normal _ , even. He probably shouldn’t have even taken him home in the first place, what- what, just because he didn’t want to go to the hospital? Fuck.

He should do all of that. It would be more than enough, really, and Grantaire isn’t even someone who tends to do  _ enough _ . All of this is very uncharacteristic of him, it’s just that-

That-

Grantaire stops in the middle of the gallery, staring up at a painting he has never seen before. Because-

It’s a wonderful painting, with deep shadows and fine detail and a scene that really catches the eye--a rebellion, of some sort, all gun-smoke and scrap. That’s not the problem, though. All of that is fine.

The problem is that-

The fucking  _ problem _ , see, is that right there in the center, with one hand on a pistol and the other twined firmly in the hair of a man already kneeling, is Enjolras. Enjolras, with that same fury, that same fire in his eyes. Enjolras, his golden curls lit up by torchlight and askew. Enjolras, wearing the same waistcoat as he was the very night before. 

Grantaire can’t breathe. Because that can’t be right, he’s fucking hallucinating now, he-

He takes a step in to peer at the description.  _ Themis at the Barricades _ , it reads--of the June Rebellion. Painted by one of the young rebels, escaped down and through the sewers, of what is alleged to be a notorious criminal, on his knees, and above him, with a gun to his head, a young student, anonymous. A revolutionary, rumored to have disappeared quite thoroughly upon the fall of the barricade. But-

But that’s Enjolras. That’s Enjolras if Grantaire has ever known anyone before in his fucking life. That’s Enjolras, at the instant of execution and-

His phone rings, loud and cutting against marble floors. He fumbles for it, heart pounding like a fucking jackhammer. “Huh?”

“Grantaire,” says Combeferre, but Grantaire can’t tear his eyes from Enjolras’s face, done there in oils on canvas. 

“Ferre,” he chokes out. “Ferre, I think I’m-”

“Where’d you get the coin?” Combeferre asks, seemingly oblivious of Grantaire’s internal fucking crisis. 

“Wh-” what fucking  _ coin _ , what does it matter where he got a fucking  _ coin _ , what-

“The coin on your kitchen counter. Why do you have a mint condition 20 franc coin from, like, 200 years ago next to your coffee maker? Not that I’m opposed to you picking up new hobbies, or anything, but you have to understand my curiosity, here.”

Oh.

Grantaire had forgotten about the coin, the coin that Enjolras had pressed into his hand last night. The coin from--he squints at the date on the plaque--from, fuck, probably eighteen fucking thirty two. “Is he still sleeping?” He manages. “Enjolras, is he-”

He can hear Combeferre’s frown through the phone, which, he thinks, is pretty impressive on both their parts. “Yeah, he’s asleep. I’m sure he’s fine, though, I-”

“I think something really, really fucking weird is going on.”

“With Enjolras?”

“ _ Yes _ , with Enjolras, fuck-” Fuck, Grantaire realizes. Enjolras, who talks like he’s tumbled right out of a period drama and dresses like it, too. Enjolras, who really hadn’t seemed like he was making a joke when he asked about washstands and Japan and rubbing alcohol and tooth powder. Enjolras, who carries 200-year-old coins around in his pockets. Enjolras, who, when Grantaire had googled him, had produced nothing but historical fucking documents. 

Enjolras, who said he had fallen from the window.

Enjolras, who smells like fucking gunpowder, how had Grantaire failed to place it?

Enjolras, who said that something fucking  _ strange _ had befallen him, and Grantaire had hardly even believed him, but it’s Enjolras in the fucking painting, and-

He tells Combeferre all of this, quiet as he can bear in the hush of the gallery. “I’ll- I’ll send you the picture. You can tell me if I’m going fucking crazy, please, but-” 

Combeferre is pretty fucking quiet on the other line.

“I’ll send you the photo,” Grantaire says again, and he pulls up his camera and snaps a picture with trembling hands and sends it, and-

“Oh,” Combeferre says.

Grantaire draws in a deep, deep breath. “Am I going crazy?”

Combeferre clears his throat. “I think I need to do a lot of googling. Um.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire.

“Yeah,” says Combeferre. “I’ll- I’ll text you what I find, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, and he hangs up.

He calls his break three minutes later, three minutes of staring up at Enjolras and the gun and the man on his knees. He goes to the bathroom and sits on the seat of a toilet and checks his phone. He has a new message from Combeferre; he almost doesn’t want to read it. 

He reads it anyways.

**Grantaire:**

**Have done some research. Painting “Themis at the Barricades” has trackable history dating back to its conception in 1830s. Seems to me unmodified in comparison to historical photographs.**

**Googled “Enjolras” and found that collection of essays you mentioned: written by a François-Marie Enjolras, ca. 1830. A lesser known work. Seems to be about workers’ rights, democracy, a free France etc. etc. I am reading it now, will keep you updated.**

**Enjolras is still asleep. Will keep you updated on that front as well.**

**Ferre**

Grantaire reads the text again, and then for a third time, and then buries his face in his hands and wills himself to breathe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things they did NOT know about in 1832: germs :^(
> 
> yes i KNOW that enjolras did not get injured at the barricades until he got shot. i KNOW that. i simply imagine that taking a tumble out a window will bang anybody up a little bit. mr. hugo sir i mean no disrespect i know that it's symbolic yadda yadda yadda real people get injured welcome to the real world enjolras babe good luck
> 
> YES it is distressing that enjolras is immortalized in his moment of moral self-sacrifice for a cause that he already knows will fail do NOT talk to me (jk PLEASE talk to me about le cabuc)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes.  
> The ceiling above him is made of perfect, bright white plaster. He does not recognize it.  
> He does not know why he is still alive.

Enjolras wakes.

The ceiling above him is made of perfect, bright white plaster. He does not recognize it.

He does not know why he is still alive.

He scrubs a hand over his face, wincing at the touch of the bandage and at the sting of the scrape, still unhealed, and sits up. He-

He thinks of the jolt of a carbine under his hands, of a young man at a cannon with soft features and a linstock falling from his fingers. He thinks of three men, nameless to him and not yet dead, riddled with grapeshot and reaching for their compatriots with grasping hands as though they believed that there was something to be done, and-

There is somebody in the kitchen--Enjolras can hear the clink of porcelain against porcelain, of porcelain against metal. Grantaire, surely, and Enjolras hopes he hasn’t woken too late, because Grantaire was kind and warm and made him dinner, yes, but he offered Enjolras a room for the night, not for the following day. 

(Enjolras is horribly selfish, despite all his efforts. He is beginning to realize this, and so it is hardly a shock when he comes to the conclusion that if it were up to him, he wouldn’t leave at all. He would stay here in Grantaire’s warm, beautiful apartment and wear his strange, soft clothes and sit across from him at his table and eat Japanese noodles and have Grantaire tend to his wounds with broad, warm, hands. He tries to shove the thought from his mind; as is the case with so many others, it proves mostly ineffective.)

He gets up, makes the bed. There is a fine quilt on it--garish, almost, the pattern marked out in bright fabric with designs so detailed he can’t even begin to fathom how they might have rolled them on and all sewn together with stitches so fine they make his fingers ache in sympathy. It, too, is warm. He finds he rather likes it. 

His clothes, his proper clothes, are hung over the back of a chair. It feels horribly improper to greet Grantaire in what he wears now--soft, grey, formless trousers, held up by a string at the waist, and a slip of a shirt that makes his arms feel horribly bare. It seems worse, however, to wear his own--they are soiled hopelessly, rank with the smells of a small war--of dirt, of gunpowder, of smoke, of sweat. Of the blood that Enjolras knows dots the front of his shirt, from a man he had not wanted to shoot, and of the blood which stains the cuff of his trousers like rainwater, from a man that he had fought beside, and who had begged for comfort that Enjolras could not afford to give.

He wraps his arms about himself and submits to feeling only a little bit stripped raw, at least for the time being. They are Grantaire’s clothes, after all--surely he wouldn’t have offered them up if they were unacceptable. Right?

(Enjolras doesn’t  _ know _ .)

He does not want to put his own clothes back on, not before he has to.

He wishes there was a washstand in the bedroom--he’d looked, but there doesn’t seem to be anything but the one with the running water in the washroom. He’d like to wash his face before greeting Grantaire, but perhaps he’ll simply have to wait, or make a brief greeting and then go excuse himself, or-

He opens the bedroom door, thoughts still firmly on the subject of washstands and how he might go about washing in a polite manner, when-

“Who are you?” Enjolras chokes out, because-

There is a man sitting at Grantaire’s table, drinking from a teacup and looking at a thin, silver--book stand, perhaps? Or a small easel, of some type? He looks up at Enjolras, when he speaks, and he smiles, but- but- “Who are you?” Enjolras hears himself demand, once more, and his voice cracks against his will. “Where is Grantaire?” He reaches about himself for- for something, anything, to put between himself and this strange man, but these are not his clothes, and this is not his apartment, and he comes up with nothing. “Who-” Is he a  _ thief?  _ Is that why he sits there, like he owns the very floors and everything to be found on them? 

Is he here for Enjolras? Has he been pursued to- to wherever he is, whatever this is? Is this his- his moment of reckoning, for all that he has done, right here in this warm apartment? Is-

The man stands, and Enjolras’s heart jumps in his chest. His hand makes contact with something hard, behind him, and he brandishes--well, it’s a mid-sized decorative vase, but it’s better than nothing and Enjolras wants nothing less than to use it but he  _ will _ , he will if he needs to, he- he can hardly breathe, and he grasps wildly for the composure he had only the night before but comes up with nothing, and-

“Hey, hey,” says the man, and he raises his hands in surrender but that means  _ nothing,  _ he could- “It’s fine. I’m Combeferre. I’m Grantaire’s friend. He had to go to work and he asked me to come over so you wouldn’t be alone when you woke up.” His voice is soft, low, as if he were speaking to gentle a skittish mare, and Enjolras should  _ hate  _ it, he is not a beast to be tempered, and yet-

He lowers the vase, ever so slightly, swallows. “Why should I believe you?”

The man--Combeferre--sighs. “Because I’m eating breakfast? Because I’ve been sitting here for about two hours waiting for you to wake up? Because I brought pastries over?”

Oh.

Enjolras sets the vase back on the bureau, feeling only somewhat sheepish. “Ah,” he says, for lack of better words. “Um.”

“Do you want some breakfast?” Combeferre asks.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” says Enjolras, and only after he says it does he realize that Combeferre had asked him a question. He’s never been any good at this, never been any good at  _ knowing people _ , and it’s probably because he behaves like this all the time.

Combeferre just extends a hand with a smile that doesn’t feel scornful at all, not even wary. “Likewise, Enjolras. Breakfast?”

Enjolras bites back his embarrassment and shakes Combeferre’s hand. This, at least, he knows. And, honestly, he  _ does _ want breakfast--aside from the soup, he can’t quite remember what it is that he ate last, and Combeferre seems… kind, maybe. “Yes, please,” he says.

“Coffee?” 

“If it doesn’t trouble you.”

Combeferre gestures for Enjolras to sit down at the table. Enjolras sits. Combeferre pours coffee from a glass pitcher into a cup in white ceramic, plain aside for the writing painted on in black, and sets it down in front of him alongside some sort of pastry on a plate.

“Thank you,” says Enjolras. 

Combeferre sits down across the table and leans back in his chair and watches Enjolras with the sort of open intrigue that makes Enjolras feel vaguely like a pinned insect in a case.

He looks down at the pastry on the plate. It is puffed, golden brown, curved. He pokes at it gingerly with his little finger--it is soft, but a bit flakes off, anyways. He has never seen anything of the sort before. He clears his throat sheepishly--he feels as though he knows absolutely nothing, nothing at all. “What- What is-”

Combeferre frowns--Enjolras hopes he hasn’t offended him. “It’s a croissant,” he says, like Enjolras can’t see what shape it is. 

Enjolras frowns back at him. “But-” 

Something in Combeferre’s face, in an instant, softens, like he’s realized something. What, Enjolras can’t say. “It’s a type of Austrian pastry. Lots of butter. It’s really popular.”

Enjolras, too, lowers his hackles. “And named like the moon,” he offers, because he may know very little about this world, but he’s not- he’s not  _ stupid _ . It’s not Combeferre’s fault that nothing makes sense.

Combeferre smiles, takes a sip from his own cup. “Yeah, and named like the moon. Try it, you’ll like it.”

He tries it.

It is-

It is flaky, and soft, and it tastes like the bread one might eat in a dream, or in a particularly imaginative book, and-

He shuts his eyes. He has never had food like this. Never, and for a moment he thinks that surely, surely, this cannot be allowed. This is not his to have, this is not-

“Enjolras?” Combeferre sounds concerned.

He opens his eyes, swallows. “This is very, very good,” he manages. “Thank you.”

Combeferre huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t sound very mocking at all. Enjolras doesn’t know why that’s so surprising. “I bought about eight, so it’s good you like them, or I’d have to take one for the team and eat the rest before they went stale.”

Both Combeferre and Grantaire speak so strangely, sometimes--Enjolras feels a bit as though he’s listening to another language, one that he only half-knows. “Hardly a great sacrifice, either way,” he says, and it’s not until he’s said it that he realizes that- that’s a bit rude, actually, but-

The laugh Combeferre lets out is loud, full, bright, surprised. “I guess not,” he says, and Enjolras hazards a smile back. It feels strange, on his cheeks, but he supposes it doesn’t matter, much, anyways.

“I shall relieve you of your burden, then,” he says, for he is noble if he is anything. “I shall eat four, and you may weather through only the other four yourself.”

Combeferre is still smiling. “Very nice of you.”

Enjolras takes a sip of his coffee, shrugs. Combeferre goes back to his own breakfast.

They eat in silence. Combeferre watches Enjolras from over his teacup. When Enjolras reaches for another croissant, Combeferre says nothing.

“So,” says Combeferre, when Enjolras has nearly finished the second croissant.

He freezes, hand halfway between the plate and his mouth. It is very, very far from dignified, but- but he likes Combeferre, but there’s something strange that’s come into his tone, and-

Oh.

This was a mistake. He should never have sat down to dine with a stranger like this. The ache in his head has rendered him a fool--he would never behave like this, never. He knows better than to trust like that, he-

He sets the heel of the croissant back down, sits up straight. He cannot quite bring himself to unclench his jaw, not even to speak, because- because-

(Because his heart is pounding, because if he is not safe here, he is not safe anywhere, and does this man even know Grantaire? What does he  _ want _ ?)

“Hm?” Enjolras has little care for table manners, not now, not since he has shaken the haze of the morning and realized the severity of the situation.

Combeferre must have noticed the change in his posture--he’s raised his hands again, a half-serious surrender. “Hey,” he’s saying again. “Enjolras, hey, it’s fine. It’s all fine, yeah?” His voice has gone soft, like before.

He pulls in a breath, pushes it back out. “What do you  _ want _ ?” he grits out. He feels… lightheaded, almost. He’s never- His heart has never beat so fast, so hard, before, not even on the barricades, not even facing down a dozen muskets with nothing at his back but a window, far too high above the ground. 

Distantly, he can hear Combeferre moving--standing up, perhaps. “Enjolras-”

“What- What do you-” He forces himself to breathe, once more, but it’s  _ hard _ . His eyes are stinging. “What-” 

He-

He heaves for breath--or perhaps he heaves a sob, and-

There is a hand on his shoulder, and he startles hard, too hard, and the chair he sits on moves to tip and-

And instead of falling, instead of falling again, instead of- of- of-

He is being held against Combeferre’s chest, held firmly, for all that he- he is  _ trembling _ , and he moves to shove away, to break from his grasp, but there is a hand, broad and warm and horribly gentle, around both of his wrists, and-

And he thinks of the jolt of a carbine under his hands, of a young man at a cannon with soft features and a linstock falling from his fingers. He thinks of three men, nameless to him and not yet dead, riddled with grapeshot and reaching for their compatriots with grasping hands as though they believed that there was something to be done, he thinks of the jolt of a carbine under his hands and of a young man and of a watch in his hand and of three men pleading for their mothers and of one of them clinging to the leg of Enjolras’s trousers and-

Combeferre is speaking. He speaks, low and steady, and he rocks Enjolras like a skiff rocks on a gentled harbor. Enjolras thinks that he is saying his name.

Enjolras cannot remember the last time he was held, as such. Was it before he left the south for Paris?

Combeferre rests a hand between his shoulder blades.

Enjolras hears himself let out a wretched sob, one that wracks his chest and makes his head spin, and just like that, he’s crying. Crying hard, into the soft cotton of Combeferre’s shirt, and it’s horribly undignified, but Combeferre does is hush him and hold him tighter. “I- I apologize for this,” he chokes out, because he  _ is _ , because this is  _ ridiculous _ , because he can’t stop fucking  _ sobbing _ .

“You’re okay,” says Combeferre, but Enjolras (Enjolras can still feel the soft ticking of a pocket watch in hand)  _ isn’t _ , and he buries his face in the crook of Combeferre’s neck and cries. 

He does not know how long it is before he can breathe again. When he can--when he draws in a deep, trembling breath and raises his head from Combeferre’s shoulder--he finds that they are the both of them on the floor; Combeferre must have, at some point, tugged Enjolras from the chair and onto the ground. 

He rubs at his cheeks with the back of his hand. He- he can’t quite say what came over him. “I, um-” his voice breaks, and he curses it somewhere deep in his gut, somewhere that aches cold with shame. “I apologize. For that.”

Combeferre brushes his hair back from his forehead--some had gotten stuck on the adhesive strip on the bandage, and it tugs, before it comes loose. Enjolras winces, but not at the touch--of that he’s almost sure. “You’re alright,” he says, and Enjolras  _ isn’t _ , he- “I know,” he says, but he _ doesn’t _ , he  _ can’t _ . 

Enjolras shakes his head, sits up. His hands are trembling; he shoves them firmly into his lap. “I must admit,” he says, and it’s all a lie. “I do not quite know what came over me.”

That should be the end of it--Combeferre should accept that as enough. Instead, he looks Enjolras over with something that looks a lot like sympathy and says, “I told Grantaire I’d take a look at your head and your hands for you.”

He swallows. “Fine,” he says, because it is. 

Combeferre stands and pulls Enjolras to his feet by the elbow. His head spins, at the movement, but he trails after Combeferre as he’s tugged--more gently than he’d expected--to the room with the washstand and the privy and the white tile floors. 

He is seated on the edge of the bath. Combeferre drags a stool to rest in front of him; the sound of the legs against tile grates somewhere behind his eyes. He’s brought the box that Grantaire had found last night--the one with the bandages in it. 

Enjolras does not flinch when Combeferre brings his hand to rest at his temple. He does not flinch when Combeferre stays close to tug the bandage away. He does not flinch at the sudden touch of air to the wound. He grits his jaw and clenches his fist into the soft grey cotton of his borrowed trousers and does not even breathe.

Combeferre  _ tsks _ under his breath, tears open one of the packets that Grantaire had used last night--the ones that he had said had alcohol on them, although he still doesn’t understand-

The touch of the swab stings, and he only barely holds his breath from rushing out in something horribly close to a gasp. Combeferre’s hands are gentle, warm, but they- they are different from Grantaire’s. Enjolras does not know why that feels wrong.

“It’s not that bad, you know,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras hadn’t quite been expecting for him to speak. “I’m sure it hurts, of course, and it’s still fresh, but it doesn’t seem infected and it’s not very deep. If it were up to me, of course, I’d send you to the hospital for a few sutures-” (Enjolras tenses--the National Guard will surely have posted notices at hospitals, he cannot afford- but Combeferre continues to talk, seemingly ignorant of his concern.) “But Grantaire told me that you didn’t want that, and it shouldn’t scar  _ too  _ badly, anyways, so I guess I’ll settle for temporary ones.”

Enjolras says nothing, but Combeferre waits, so he clears his throat and nods. “Fine.”

“Good,” says Combeferre, and he gets to unwrapping something small and white from a strip of paper. 

Enjolras should be wary. He knows he should. But Combeferre speaks with the cadence of a doctor, not that of a spy, or a soldier, and he treats Enjolras gently, and his head hurts like there is a hammer pounding at it from within, and he lets his eyes slip closed. Lets them stay that way, as Combeferre uses--did he say it was a form of temporary suture?--something adhesive to pull and hold the wound closer together; as he takes one of the square bandages like from the night before, and applies it with the same adhesive strips; as he rifles around in the box for something else and takes his face back in hand.

“Open your eyes?” He asks, and Enjolras does, because he- he trusts him, and-

And he is met with a blinding, white light, first in one eye, then the other, and it  _ hurts _ , and he jolts back, away from it, but there is nothing behind him and-

And Combeferre has a firm hand on his shoulder, and he’s apologizing, fast and urgent, and the light disappears, but Enjolras’s head is still spinning. He holds a small, black object--metal, like a pipe. A weapon, perhaps, but he doesn’t hold it like one.

“Wh-” Enjolras’s head hurts. Combeferre moves to put the object down, but Enjolras reaches for it. He half expects Combeferre to set it out of his reach--instead, he hands it over easily.

It’s heavy in his hands--smooth, but for some hatching around the center. One of the ends is metal, the other--is that glass? Glass, with something behind it, maybe. He can’t quite make heads or tails of it.

Combeferre reaches for it, but does not take it away--he twists the end with the glass, and from it comes a beam of light, bright and focused and white like the sun at noon. He twists it back. The beam disappears. “Like that,” he says, and he lets go.

Enjolras twists it. The beam reappears, settling on a spot on his thigh. It is not warm, like the light of a fire. 

“It’s a flashlight,” says Combeferre.

Enjolras twists it again. The light goes off. He tries it again--on, off. 

“I was using it to check your pupil dilation,” he says, which makes sense. He turns the flashlight on, then off. It’s nice to have something in his hands, something solid, something to hold. “I think you have a concussion. It’s pretty mild, and it should go away in a few days, but it’ll make you sensitive to light.” (Enjolras flicks the light on, then off.) He clears his throat, and it sounds awkward. “Does- does that make sense to you?”

Yes, it makes sense. It explains the headache, the fog. Perhaps, even, why everything seems so strange. “Yes,” he says. 

Combeferre looks relieved. He opens the box with the bandages, draws a few things from it, sets it down. Enjolras extends a hand diligently; he knows that this is next. Combeferre flashes him a smile, but it seems forced. (Enjolras is used to that. He’s fairly sure that it has nothing to do with his injuries, or how he does not seem to understand anything. He simply seems to inspire a fair amount of unease, regardless of the efforts he makes.) 

Enjolras sits still as Combeferre takes the bandage off of one of his hands, swabs it with the alcohol. He does not flinch. Combeferre bandages it carefully, more easily, than Grantaire, with practiced hands and a roll of thin gauze that he wraps to cover the bandage on his palm, to secure it in place. Enjolras holds the flashlight in his other hand and can’t quite twist it one-handed, not with the bandage and the scrape down his palm, so he turns it over slowly, focusing on the weight of it, on the cool sheen of polished metal.

“Enjolras,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras switches hands, flashlight-to-gauze, new-empty palm out to Combeferre, but he does nothing but hold it gingerly, and Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s waiting for until he looks up, and Combeferre speaks. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

And Enjolras- he  _ does _ mind, he thinks, if only because he’s so certain that no matter the question he is posed, he will lack the answer. How could he not, when he seems to understand nothing at all? But Combeferre is kind, and he is bandaging Enjolras’s wounds, and he had held him close as Enjolras sobbed, and he had brought him pastries, and he owes him this much, at least. He swallows. “Go on,” he says. His heart, pounding in his chest, does not seem as though it agrees.

Combeferre sighs, begins to bandage his hand. “I want you to know,” he says, though he has yet to even ask the question, “That I’ll believe more than you think I will. Really.”

“I understand,” says Enjolras, though he knows that Combeferre does not know of what he speaks. He speaks of believing, but- but no one in their right mind would. Should. No one in their right mind would believe what has befallen him--that a man can fall to his death and hit the ground on a street he has never seen before, in a world he has never seen before, staring up at a window that he did not fall out of.

It’s of no matter. Enjolras does not prefer to lie, but he has done so easily, will do so easily, like breathing. Surely, he can think of an answer that will be easier to believe. Why he is there, why he has not yet left, why he is injured, why he was on the street. All of that, he-

“What year do you think it is?”

Enjolras freezes, sharp and sudden and cold, like gutter-water. He-

He had not thought that he should have to answer that. He-

It is 1832, and he is a traitor to the crown, and he is a coward. It is 1832, and he has shot a man in cold blood. (A carbine jolts in his hand.) It is 1832--a man, younger than he, reaches out to grip at the cuff of his trousers--and he is the last man left alive on a doomed barricade, and he meets the eye of a Guardsman but his hands are trembling. It is-

“1832,” he says, although it isn’t right. “The sixth of June,” he says, but that isn’t right, either, for it’s now the morning. “The seventh,” he tries, instead. His voice cracks. “It’s Thursday,” he says, because that much, he knows, because it was on Tuesday that he had thought- that he had thought that perhaps, perhaps the people would come to their aid, their brothers. Perhaps the barricade would hold.

Combeferre has stopped bandaging his hand--perhaps he has finished, but he holds on tight, too tight. “It’s 2019,” he says. “June seventh. A Friday.”

That’s-

That’s not correct.

That cannot-

“It isn’t,” says Enjolras. He twists at the flashlight in his hand. “It’s-” He swallows. “It’s Thursday.”

He looks at Combeferre, because surely- surely he is making a joke. Surely he is making a joke, like Grantaire must have been, the night before. He must be.

He does not look as though he is joking. He is looking at Enjolras with a sadness in his gaze that makes Enjolras want to writhe out of his skin like a snake is free to do. 

“It-” Enjolras swallows again. There is too much saliva in his mouth, he- “It isn’t,” he says, and he watches Combeferre’s face for something,  _ anything _ more. “It isn’t,” he tries, again. He feels as though he may retch.

Combeferre squeezes his hand; it stings, but perhaps not enough. Perhaps too much. “It’s 2019,” he repeats, low and calm. “It’s June seventh. It’s Friday.”

“I-” It’s 1832. It’s 1832, Enjolras has shot a man, Enjolras can feel a carbine in his hands. 

Combeferre is still holding his hand. “Enjolras?”

He turns and vomits into the perfect, white porcelain of the bath.

It’s 1832. There is blood on the hem of his trousers. A man beside him is crying for his mother.

It’s 1832, and he watches a linstock hit cobblestone and he is holding a watch and-

It’s 2019, and his throat burns, acid-sharp, and he is alone in a room with white tiles. 

There is vomit in the bath.

He is wearing somebody else’s clothing.

Combeferre comes back into the room and sits down beside him on the cold tile floor and presses a glass of water into his hands.

Enjolras drinks. The water does not taste the same. 

Combeferre takes a cloth, wet with warm water and white and strange to the touch, and wipes at the bile on Enjolras’s chin and at a few strands of his hair, which dangle in front of his face and smell acrid, too. “Do you think you’re gonna throw up again?” he asks, and Enjolras doesn’t- he doesn’t  _ fucking _ understand.

“Am I going to what?” His voice is raw. It hurts, coming out.

Combeferre rubs at his back. “Do you think that you’re going to vomit?”

He considers that. “I may,” he admits.

“Okay,” says Combeferre, and he gathers Enjolras’s curls back with careful fingers and brings them into a sort of hasty queue with the help of a tie. 

Enjolras leans over the side of the tub and lets Combeferre keep a hand settled between his shoulder blades and says, “I apologize for the bath.” It’s awful, really--he has only met Grantaire, and now he’s vomited in his bath tub and cried on his friend.

Combeferre just laughs, soft and a little sad. “I’ll take care of the tub. Don’t worry about that bit.”

He would protest, but it’s too tempting to nod, to shut his eyes, to let Combeferre rub at the muscles in his neck and sit close and wait.

He cannot say how long it is before his gut no longer feels as though it may upturn itself, but when it does, he sits back and draws in a deep, trembling breath. “I think,” he says. “I think that that may have been all.”

“Okay,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras still does not understand, but he lets Combeferre slowly bring him to his feet and guide him to the washstand. Combeferre fetches the glass from the floor; Enjolras stares at himself in the mirror. 

He cannot remember the last time that he saw himself in a mirror so large. His parents had one of about this size, he believes, but it was nowhere near so clear, so unwarped, and that was years and years and years ago. Longer, even, though he cannot bear to think of that. In the mirror, he looks sallow and wan. The bandage on his head is large, obtrusive. The shadows beneath his eyes are dark, made worse by tears, and he cannot quite say whether they are worsened by bruising or only by exhaustion.

Combeferre hands him another glass of water. He drinks. 

Combeferre hands him the tooth-brush from the night before. He brushes his teeth, spits in the sink. The tooth powder still tastes of mint.

Combeferre wraps an arm around him and walks him to the bedroom. Enjolras is grateful--he wants nothing more than to shut his eyes. Go to sleep, if he is lucky, but at the very least, shut his eyes. 

Enjolras is twenty-six years old, and he lets Combeferre guide him under the quilt and the sheets and pull them up over him. He- “I don’t know where I am to go,” he says.

Combeferre still looks impossibly sad. “I’ll talk to Grantaire,” he says, and Enjolras doesn’t know what that means, either.

Combeferre leaves and leaves the door open a crack. Enjolras does not know why he is grateful. 

Enjolras sleeps.

He does not dream.

When he wakes--or, half-wakes, hazy and unsure--Combeferre has put a glass of water and a croissant and the flashlight on the night-stand. Enjolras drinks the water and takes a few bites of the croissant and takes up the flashlight and turns it on and off and on and off and on and off, over and over again.

He sleeps.

He does not dream.

He wakes. He needs to pee. Combeferre is speaking, hushed and urgent, in the other room. Enjolras does not hear a second voice. Perhaps he is speaking with someone from the balcony, with someone on the street, or in a different apartment. Perhaps he is speaking to himself. 

Enjolras stands and walks to the privy and in the short gap between rooms he catches a snippet of, “ _ no idea at all, R, and he was fucking terrified, we have to-” _ before he shuts the privy door. He uses the toilet, presses the button Grantaire had shown him, watches as the water flushes everything away. 

Combeferre has already scrubbed the bath clean. The whole privy smells of bleach.

He walks back to the bedroom. He hears, “ _ doing alright, but I mean, what can I even-”  _ and shuts the door. He lies back down, then stands and opens the door a crack and gets back into bed. He can’t quite make out Combeferre’s words, but the sound is comforting.

He takes another sip of water and has another few bites of the croissant and drinks some more water and holds the flashlight in his hands and turns it on and off and on again.

He sleeps.

He does not dream, and then he dreams of the spray of grapeshot against chairs and tables and cobblestones and men, and then he dreams of nothing, once more. 

He wakes. He thinks that he is hungry but he cannot stomach bread. Combeferre is speaking, still hushed, and Grantaire is there, too, and he speaks urgently. 

Enjolras no longer has a watch, but the sun looks half-golden on the wall. 

He is staring up at the ceiling when the door opens. He should sit up, should look over to greet whoever it is who stands, there, in the doorway, but he cannot bear to move.

Grantaire sits down in the chair beside the bed, and finally, Enjolras turns his head. He wears a shirt with sleeves that stop halfway to his elbow and a frown. He, too, watches Enjolras, but somehow, Enjolras doesn’t feel very pinned.

They watch one another.

Grantaire clears his throat. “Me and Combeferre, you know we believe you, right?”

Enjolras wishes he had never torn his gaze from the ceiling. “There is nothing to believe.” He can’t even say whether or not he believes it all.

“Okay,” says Grantaire. “Do you want to come have dinner?”

He swallows. He should say yes. He needs to accept; he has already overstayed his welcome, already stayed unannounced, already vomited in Grantaire’s bath. “I assure you,” he says. “If I felt as though I was able to, I would in an instant, but I-” he shuts his eyes for a moment; they’re stinging. “I apologize, I-”

Grantaire rubs at Enjolras’s forearm, where it rests atop the quilt. His hands are- are rough and warm and broad, and Enjolras shuts his eyes and does not beg him not to let go, and so he lets go. “No worries,” he says, and he stands. “I’ll bring you a sandwich, later?”

He is being entirely too kind, he and Combeferre both. “Thank you,” Enjolras says, instead of offering to leave, as he ought. 

Grantaire leaves.

The door stays open a crack; outside, Enjolras can hear the sound of cutlery against porcelain, the sound of hushed conversation.

He does not intend to fall asleep. He has not been invited to spend a second night, he has no right to do so. Now that Grantaire has returned, he ought to change back into his clothes, into his trousers with the blood at the hem, and leave. 

Instead, he wakes to Grantaire setting a plate down on the night-stand. There is a sandwich on it--simple, just bread and meat and something green. 

Grantaire sits beside the bed and hands Enjolras a quarter of the sandwich. Enjolras is tired and his mind is hazy but he is  _ hungry _ , and he eats it without thinking and lets Grantaire hand him a second, and he eats that one, as well. The leaves are spicy and fresh and the meat is tender and good and the bread is strange but it, too, is good, and when he finishes the quarter at hand Grantaire passes him the third and he eats it but he is so, so tired. 

“I apologize,” he says, once the third quarter has been eaten. “I do not mean to overstay my welcome,” he says, but his eyes are closing. He feels very warm and very full. “I mean to leave.”

Grantaire brings the quilt back up to Enjolras’s chest and frowns, again. “Just go to sleep,” he says, and Enjolras does not intend to, but he does so nonetheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> croissants are called croissants because they're crescent shaped and crescent=croissant. and ferre is like "that's a crescent" and enjolras is like yeah no SHIT that gives me no information at all. i am very funny hahahahaha
> 
> also umm sorry enjy baby for making u have such a hard time
> 
> yell at me about it on my [Tumblr](https://dannypuro.tumblr.com/) and comment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras sleeps for a long time. 
> 
> Grantaire is pretty sure he’s sleeping, at least--he’d left the door open a crack, once he could bear to leave Enjolras’s bedside, and he takes a glance in as he passes. Enjolras lays where he’d left him, sprawled out beneath Jehan’s quilt, his eyes shut tight. His curls sprawl, golden, across the pillow, across his cheeks. There is blood on the bandage on his forehead, just barely soaked through. The collar of his shirt, Grantaire’s shirt, is twisted, too large for him by half, and it tugs off to the side, just past his collarbone, straight and fine.

Enjolras sleeps for a long time. 

Grantaire is pretty sure he’s sleeping, at least--he’d left the door open a crack, once he could bear to leave Enjolras’s bedside, and he takes a glance in as he passes. Enjolras lays where he’d left him, sprawled out beneath Jehan’s quilt, his eyes shut tight. His curls sprawl, golden, across the pillow, across his cheeks. There is blood on the bandage on his forehead, just barely soaked through. The collar of his shirt, Grantaire’s shirt, is twisted, too large for him by half, and it tugs off to the side, just past his collarbone, straight and fine.

He does not let himself stay and watch, because he’s not a total freak. He wants to, of course--fuck, he hadn’t even wanted to leave his bedside--but he doesn’t. That’s worth something, he figures. 

He goes back to the living room and sits down at the table and buries his face in his hands. Combeferre pours them both a glass of wine. 

They sit in silence for a long time. Combeferre pours himself a second glass of wine; Grantaire cradles his first. 

“Jesus,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire could not agree with anything more. 

“Yeah,” he says, and he scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m going crazy, right? This is crazy. This is totally insane.”

“Hm,” says Combeferre, which is not particularly reassuring. “Listen,” he says, and Grantaire didn’t even know how ready he was to make his case until he spoke, because he can’t- he can’t kick Enjolras out  _ now _ , not when he’s hurt, even if Combeferre thinks he should, and- “You can’t kick him out now,” Combeferre says, and-

Grantaire lets out a breath he hadn’t quite realized he’d been holding. “No, yeah. Yeah. Obviously.”

“Right,” says Combeferre. “Good.”

There is a long pause. Combeferre takes a sip of wine. Grantaire-

Grantaire thinks about Enjolras. Thinks about- thinks about the painting in the museum, about the strange look in his eyes--not quite rage, not really. A bit fitting to the title--maybe cold judgement, if anything. He thinks about they way he’d looked when he’d found him, too, and what Combeferre had said over the phone, half-whispered and halfway to tears, and- “Do you-”

Combeferre looks up at him. He looks impossibly tired.

Fuck, but Grantaire doesn’t even want to ask. He doesn’t even want to hear Combeferre tell him that he’s crazy, that Enjolras is probably just concussed, that there’s a simpler explanation. He knows what he saw in the painting--knows the tear at the knee of Enjolras’s trousers and that lock of hair that falls in front of his eyes--and he knows the way that Enjolras had looked up at him, eyes all wild and brow already set, and-

Across the table, Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes. “People who are lying don’t react like that.” Like- Grantaire had heard him, over the phone, once Enjolras had fallen asleep-- like shaking so hard in Combeferre’s arms as he’d sobbed that Combeferre had been scared he’d bleed through the bandages, like the terrified look, somewhere back in his gaze, that never really left at all, like- he’d been so  _ sure,  _ when he’d said it was a Thursday. When he’d said it was 18 fucking 32 and looked at Combeferre like  _ he’d _ been the one who was hard to believe. “People who are lying don’t-” he breaks off. 

“People who are lying don’t appear in paintings from the nineteenth century?” Grantaire tries, because Combeferre doesn’t make a move to continue. “People who are lying don’t puke in the bathtub?”

He shakes his head. “People who are lying don’t-” He sighs, looks down at his glass. “People who are lying don’t look that scared. He was fucking terrified, R.”

Grantaire knows. Fuck, if Grantaire doesn’t know. 

Combeferre rubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ,” he says, and Grantaire can agree with that.

“Yeah.” Grantaire finishes his glass of wine and watches the way the light hits the table through the dregs. 

Neither of them talk for a good, long time. It’s not too late, not really, but Grantaire is tired like someone had tacked a few extra hours on somewhere he’d missed. He thinks of Enjolras, knocked back on the pavement and not getting up.

“Do-” Grantaire swallows. “Do you think he’ll be alright, though?”

Combeferre drums his fingers on the tabletop. “You should redo the bandages if he takes a shower. I’ll send you a youtube video for the hands,” he says, and that isn’t what Grantaire had meant at all, but Grantaire is pretty sure that Combeferre knows that much, too, so he just nods.

“Okay.”

“Are you gonna be okay if I go home?” 

He thinks on that, he really does, because Ferre  _ would _ stay, if Grantaire asked, but- “I think so. Besides, you should get some sleep, and the guest room is occupied, last I checked.”

Combeferre shoots a glance over to the door, quirks a smile. “Guess it is,” he says, and he gets to his feet with a groan that Grantaire is sure wasn’t necessary. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Course.” Grantaire gets a ruffle to his hair for his troubles. 

Combeferre sees himself out, shuts the door soft and careful. 

Grantaire is alone in his apartment, and he is also not. He is alone in his apartment, and Enjolras sleeps on in the spare bedroom, beneath the quilt that Jehan had made, head on Grantaire’s good pillow.

Enjolras, who thinks it’s 1832. Enjolras, who smells of gunpowder. Enjolras, who is scared of the hospital and who thought instant ramen was something worth commenting on and who had brushed his teeth beside Grantaire in the bathroom mirror. 

Enjolras, who had stood upon the barricade of a doomed revolution and shot a man who kneeled at his feet amid the rubble. Enjolras, with the strange look in his eyes, but Grantaire can’t quite bring it to mind, now, and-

He sets his glass aside and sits down on the couch, pulling his laptop onto his knees. He opens it, opens a search engine, but-

His fingers hover over the keys for a moment. (He’s crazy, he’s going fucking crazy-) He takes a breath--he can’t quite explain the way his hands are shaking. It’s only fucking google, Christ, it’s-

He types out  **Themis at the Barricades** and hits  _ enter _ before he can stop himself.

The page loads, and Grantaire is faced with several links he does not care to read and a Wikipedia image of the painting, just as it had looked on the wall of the museum.

He clicks it.

And-

And,  _ oh,  _ that had been the look on his face. Rage, and justice, and  _ sorrow _ .

He holds so tightly to the man’s hair that his knuckles are pulled white, that his wrist--bony, it had been, under Grantaire’s hand--flexes cruel. The other hand holds the gun just as tightly, holds it to the man’s ear with unmistakable intent, intent without pretension. 

At his feet, the man’s face twists into a mask so terrified, so terrifying, that Grantaire holds no doubts as to its veracity. The man’s clothes, already disheveled, bear a blood splatter, fresh and bright and hot and anything but his.

All that, and Enjolras-

Enjolras has sorrow in his eyes.

Grantaire opens a new tab and googles that name Combeferre had told him, over the phone, the one he’d vaguely remembered from his rudimentary google search, that first night--François-Marie Enjolras. Enjolras, François-Marie. 

There’s a Wikipedia article on him--very convenient. He scans it.

He was born in the south, in Isère--Grantaire had thought he’d heard an accent.

He was a radical, a revolutionary in the most literal sense, advocating for anti-monarchical ideals and publishing a set of philosophical essays in 1831 arguing for the liberties of man and the appropriate role of the government and--Grantaire thinks back to the painting and understands that, too. 

He took part in the June Rebellion of 1832--Grantaire knew that, already, though.

He was born in 1806, the article says. His death date is marked as  _ unknown _ . Grantaire stares at that line and thinks that if anything on Wikipedia has ever been true, it is that.

There is a section entitled  _ Controversy Surrounding Disappearance,  _ and Grantaire reads that, too. He reads that the story goes as follows:

The revolutionaries had held the barricade through the night, but come morning, the National Guard had broken their ranks. François-Marie Enjolras had been a leader among them, and by the time the Guardsmen had him cornered on the second floor of an old tavern known as the Corinth, he was the last man standing, the last man well enough to count. He was surrounded, the Guardsmen all swore that he was, and facing death by far too many rifles to manage an escape from, he took a step back and fell backwards out the open window. And the guardsmen and run to the sill, to see the damage, to shoot him as he tried to run, to catch him, and-

And he had been gone. There hadn’t even been a trace, not a speck of blood on the street, not a mark in the dust of the barricade. Gone, never to be seen again, and-

Grantaire shuts his laptop with a  _ snap _ . Because-

Because Enjolras had  _ said _ that, that first night. He’d lain on the pavement, staring up at Grantaire, and he’d said that he’d fallen from the window, and Grantaire had thought that that had been strange, because the window had been shut.

But-

But he  _ had _ fallen from the window, hadn’t he. Fallen from the window of the Corinth, and landed too hard on the sidewalk, somewhere in the middle of Grantaire’s path between the Metro and his apartment.

He opens his laptop again. One of the leading theories, says the article, is that Enjolras simply slipped into a sewer grate and eventually made his way to England, where he settled in the countryside and lived out the rest of his life in peace, and Grantaire wants to laugh, because he- he  _ didn’t _ . Because he’s asleep in Grantaire’s guest room. Because here he is in 2019, looking just the same as he had in 1832, just a little scraped up and in a pair of Grantaire’s old sweatpants.

Fuck.

He opens up yet another tab and searches for the name of the set of essays and gets PDFs and a Sparknotes page and the spare article, or two. A few discussions on forums.

The essays themselves are- well, now that Grantaire really thinks about it, he’s fairly certain that he had to read one of them in high school. He hadn’t really cared for it, at the time, but then again, Grantaire hadn’t really cared for anything at the time, and-

He reads. The essays are long, and verbose, and they go on and on about governmental responsibility and liberty and peace through violence and stripping the power from the hands of those who hoard it through whatever means necessary and names that Grantaire has never heard of, and-

And Enjolras had written them. And they’re  _ good _ . They’re passionate and- and  _ angry,  _ almost, and they’re all far too long, just like the one Grantaire remembered from school, and he can’t stop reading. 

He only makes it through the second one before he’s too tired to stay awake any longer, but he lies in bed and thinks of righteous rage and righteous sorrow. 

Come morning, Grantaire makes himself coffee and mixes up crêpe batter and sits at the table and reads through the third essay and waits for Enjolras to wake. In the essay, Enjolras speaks of men who have died to be free and women who sew until their fingers fail them and nobles who will never work but to hunt foxes and people starving in the streets. He speaks of men who rot in prison for stealing food and others who sit in grand mansions for having stripped the food from their workers’ mouths. He speaks of-

Enjolras clears his throat. 

Grantaire looks up with a start. Enjolras stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over themselves, over his ribs. He clears his throat, too, though mostly because he fears it cracking. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” says Enjolras. He does not move. His gaze is fixed somewhere close to Grantaire, nearly on him, but not quite--on a spot on the wall, maybe. 

After a few moments pass and Enjolras does not move, Grantaire says, “You can sit down, if you want,” and so Enjolras sits.

Grantaire shuts his laptop, sets it aside. Enjolras flashes a glance over to it, just for an instant, then tears it away. He sits straight in the chair, chin high, but he isn’t- he still isn’t looking at Grantaire, not really.

“Do you want breakfast?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras does not move, does not speak, but his gaze meets Grantaire’s, for just a while. He worries at his lip. 

Grantaire does not know why his heart is aching. “I already made the batter, I don’t mind. Better to use it now, really, it doesn’t really keep, and I made enough for two, anyways, and-” he cuts himself off. “Really. If you’re hungry, I’ll make you breakfast. Do you like coffee?”

Enjolras draws in a breath, and his posture breaks, just a little. “If it doesn’t trouble you,” he says, and he is still clutching at his forearms like he’s cold, or something, despite the June weather. 

“No trouble,” says Grantaire, because it  _ isn’t _ . “What do you take on your crêpes?”

“You needn’t-” Enjolras swallows. “Whatever you have in the cupboard, I do not mind.”

Grantaire goes into the kitchen and gets the first crêpe cooking and takes a look in his cupboard, then goes back to the table. “I’ve got marmalade and raspberry jam and Nutella and lemon and sugar, what do you want?”

Enjolras looks up with a start from where he’d been staring somewhere in the middle-distance. “I-” he glances around himself. “I-” He’s hesitant, so hesitant, and-

“Anything is fine, man, really. It’s not an issue.” Honestly, what with the look on Enjolras’s face, Grantaire is pretty sure he’d run to the store to get apricot jam, if he didn’t like raspberry.

The furrow on Enjolras’s brow deepens. “What-”

Grantaire waits.

“What is Nutella?”

And oh, shit, Grantaire could’ve sworn he’d resolved somewhere not to shock Enjolras into the whole… 21st century thing, but it’s early and he hadn’t even been thinking, not really. “It’s-” he runs back to the kitchen, grabs the jar and a spoon, checks the crêpe as it cooks, then goes back to the table, unscrewing the jar on the way. “It’s chocolate and hazelnut, try it.”

Enjolras takes the spoon hesitantly. “It’s rather sweet,” he confesses, after a long moment’s consideration--conspiratorially, almost. 

“There’s other stuff, too, it’s cool, you know, you can-”

Enjolras takes another small scoop of Nutella. “You needn’t-” he flushes hot in the cheeks. “I like the Nutella quite well.”

Grantaire doesn’t quite succeed at beating back the smile from his lips. “Good,” he says, and he goes back to the kitchen and makes crêpes and puts the best ones on Enjolras’s plate and the next best ones on his own and the ones that didn’t turn out quite as well in the fridge to worry about later. 

He brings both plates and the cutlery and a cup of coffee into the other room, all balanced atop itself and precarious in his arms until he sets it down.

Enjolras twitches a nervous smile his way, and Grantaire is very glad he’d set the plates down when he had. “Thank you,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire.

They eat in silence.

“You cook very well,” says Enjolras, with time.

Grantaire does not choke on his coffee. “Thanks.”

They keep eating. 

Grantaire has never before shared a meal with someone he has so little idea what to say to. What do you say over breakfast to a man stripped of everything he’s ever known? What do you say over breakfast to a man who has been thrust into and out of a war like a knife, too quick to steady himself on either side?

He shuts the fuck up and eats his crepes and tries not to stare at Enjolras, where he sits across the table from him. 

Enjolras eats carefully, cuts each bite with a knife and a fork and holds the silverware gently in bandaged hands. He still has a smear of dirt on his cheek. His hair is golden, yes, but blood still cakes in it, where Grantaire didn’t get it all, and it is lank with sweat and grease and dirt. He still smells of gunpowder. The bandage on his forehead is spotted with blood.

“You can take a shower, if you want,” says Grantaire, because he never fucking thinks before he speaks.

He gets a blank look. Enjolras swallows, sets his fork down. “A shower of what?”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “No, sorry, like. If you wanted to wash up, or whatever. Since, you know, you’re-” he makes an aborted gesture towards Enjolras’s general state of being.

Enjolras, thank God, looks sheepish, not offended. “You haven’t a washstand in the bedroom,” he says, “Otherwise, I would have- I would have made myself a might more presentable before joining you for breakfast.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure he himself has never  _ made himself presentable for breakfast _ once in his life. Maybe on account of a fundamental lack of washstands, but probably not. “‘S fine,” he says, if only so that he does not explain that very fact aloud at the table. “I can show you the shower after breakfast, if you want.”

He nods. His gaze has settled back down away from Grantaire and onto his plate. “Thank you,” he says, for the hundredth time, and Grantaire wants to- to tell him to  _ stop _ , to stop saying it, because Grantaire hasn’t even  _ done  _ anything, because Grantaire is the last fucking thing Enjolras should be thinking about right now, but he can’t. He knows he can’t.

Enjolras eats his crêpes and drinks his coffee and Grantaire drinks his own coffee and watches him. (So much for not staring.) When he has finished, he sets his knife and his fork down and moves to stand, and Grantaire darts out to grab his dishes before he can do so, because he  _ knows _ , he just  _ knows _ that Enjolras will try to do his own dishes, but Grantaire’s not a fucking  _ monster, _ he wouldn’t-

But Enjolras flinches, and Grantaire feels like cursing himself, because he may not be rude enough to make a guest with a concussion wash their own dishes, but he sure is stupid. “Fuck,” Grantaire says, and he freezes, dishes in hand. “Sorry, I wasn’t-” he gestures to the dishes, hopes that’s enough.

Enjolras draws in a slow breath; Grantaire could swear there’s a bit of a tremor to it. “No, I apologize, I’m not- I’m not thinking right, it seems.”

Grantaire collects the rest of the dishes and goes to put them in the dishwasher before he can start fucking talking again. “I’ll show you the shower,” he says, when he leaves the kitchen, and Enjolras looks up from his hands and nods. 

Grantaire leads him to the bathroom, shows him the shampoo and the conditioner and the face wash and the soap, how to turn on the shower. 

Enjolras says nothing. 

Grantaire swallows. “If it’s too hot, or something, you can adjust it.” He twists the knob, to demonstrate, then tests it. 

Enjolras holds back, still. He eyes the shower warily.

Maybe Grantaire should have waited.

Enjolras’s jaw works, for a moment, and then- “And-” He is fidgeting with the gauze on his hands. “And of the bandages?”

He turns, hand still on the shower knob. “What?” He tries to parse his words, but he doesn’t quite-

“The-” he holds his hands out to Grantaire, as if to show the gauze on them, as if Grantaire didn’t know it was there. “I read that- I read that damp bandages are what cause a wound to fester.”

Grantaire thinks on that, because yeah, he’s pretty sure Combeferre had mentioned something like that. “Yeah, I guess you should probably take them off. ‘S cool, though, I can patch you back up when you’re done. Combeferre’s gonna send a video over, anyways.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. He still looks confused. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

“Sure,” says Grantaire. “I’ll, um, I’ll get you some clean clothes, just hang on a sec.”

He nods.

Grantaire goes off to his bedroom and grabs his best sweatpants and a tee shirt and a pair of socks, then thinks a little harder and grabs a hoodie from his closet, because- because it’s not cold, not by a long shot, but there’s something so  _ uncomfortable _ about the way the Enjolras holds himself, and it’s closer to cold than anything else Grantaire can think of. 

He brings the clothes to Enjolras, who is picking, rather ineffectively, at the knot securing one of his bandages. 

“Ferre always does that, ties the knots too tight,” Grantaire volunteers from the doorway, and Enjolras only startles a little. “I think he does it so we don’t go rogue and attempt our own medical care.”

Enjolras, despite himself, cracks a smile. (Grantaire’s heart pounds.) “I do seem to find myself quite permanently bandaged.”

Grantaire reaches out slowly, takes one of Enjolras’s hands in his own, (Enjolras only twitches a little), works at the knot until it comes undone. He unravels the gauze as gingerly as he can manage, but he still feels clumsy, too harsh, too brash. 

The skin below the gauze is bruised dark and not yet scabbed over, and Grantaire’s gut twists.

Grantaire takes his other hand, works on that knot instead of doing something stupid like pulling him into a hug and not letting go. 

The shower has fogged up the mirror, so Grantaire reaches up to pull off the bandage from Enjolras’s forehead himself, but keeps the butterfly suture on. He very resolutely does not brush his knuckles to hot skin, to curls.

His throat sticks. “I’ll be outside,” he manages. “You know, in case-” he breaks off, wracks his mind for an acceptable end to that sentence.

Enjolras waits politely.

He flushes, hot in his cheeks. “Anyways.” (Fuck.) 

He leaves and shuts the bathroom door and sits down on the couch and listens to the drum of water against tile and watches the late-morning light sit heavy on the floorboards and thinks about--what was it that Enjolras had written? The untrampleable desire of man to be free, maybe. 

He thinks about that, and about sharp cheekbones and delicate hands and delicate hands holding a gun.

He reaches for a pen, an old receipt, just to mark out the basics--the shape of a jaw, the cut of a brow, the first outlines of a pair of serious eyes, a few curls. It comes together wrong--maybe something about the angle of his nose, something about the hollow of his cheeks, something about the fullness of his lips. It’s hard to say.

Grantaire crumples the sketch up and tosses it in the direction of the wastepaper basket and resolves to work on it. He checks his phone--Combeferre had sent him links to a few videos, and he watches them with the volume turned down until he’s fairly certain he knows what he’s doing.

The shower turns off. The room feels silent, without it.

Grantaire gets up with a groan and picks the balled-up receipt up off the floor and throws it into the wastepaper basket from a slightly closer distance. He sits back down on the couch and scowls at the spot on the floor where the sketch had been.

The bathroom door opens, and Grantaire’s heart fucking skips a beat in his chest, because-

Enjolras stands in the doorway and he is wearing Grantaire’s hoodie and Grantaire’s sweatpants and Grantaire’s fucking mismatched socks, and his hair is clean and combed and still curly, despite the water that drips from the ends, and his face is scrubbed clean and he smells like Grantaire’s conditioner and he is bruised at the head and at the hands and he is smiling, ever so cautiously.

Grantaire doesn’t think he can fucking breathe. He cannot help himself from staring.

Enjolras shifts uncomfortably, slips one of his hands into the pocket of the hoodie.

Grantaire clears his throat, for his own benefit. “If you want, I can-” he can’t quite bring any words to mind. If Enjolras wanted, Grantaire thinks, he would do just about anything.

Enjolras just nods jerkily and sits down at the table.

Grantaire goes to get the first aid kit from the bathroom and tries to catch his breath. He nearly succeeds.

He smiles when he comes back and draws over a chair to sit facing Enjolras without the table in the way and opens the first aid kit and faithfully ignores his pounding heart as he takes Enjolras’s hand. “I watched the videos Ferre sent me,” he says, and Enjolras looks exactly as confused as Grantaire had expected but Grantaire just kinda needs to run his mouth, right now. And anyways, he’s pretty sure he heard somewhere that, like, talking is essential for having a good bedside manner, or some shit. Probably when he was helping Joly study for his classes, back when he had classes. “So, I’m gonna try and do it better than I did last time, but I can’t make any promises. Definitely won’t be as good as when Ferre did it, but he’s the doctor, not me. But you should let me know if, like, I’m fucking it up, cause I’ll fix it. You know?”

When Grantaire looks up from where he’s wrapping his hand, Enjolras is looking at him with wide eyes. “Um.” 

Grantaire is going too fast. Shit, of course he’s going too fast, Enjolras has got about a century and a half to catch up on, of course Grantaire is going too fucking fast. “Sorry,” he says, “I just- Just tell me if I hurt you?”

Enjolras nods. 

Grantaire takes up his other hand. He bandages it clumsily, holds it too loosely and then too tight, but Enjolras doesn’t wince, and Grantaire-

Grantaire’s fucking  _ trying _ , alright? He’s fucking trying. He’s trying, and he’s got a fucking- fucking political revolutionary from 18-fucking-32 sitting at his table and dripping water onto the floorboards and looking up at him with big eyes and he is doing all that he can. He’s not even cut out for this stuff, this- this  _ helping people _ stuff, that’s Combeferre’s shit, and Joly’s, and all Grantaire does is stand in an art gallery for a few hours and then drink wine and cook soup and he is not prepared for this, for any of this. He’s not even prepared for a fucking Metro line closure, how could he possibly be expected to know what to do with someone who-

Someone who needs help, and-

He clears his throat. “Right.” He ties the gauze and very purposefully does not do it as tightly as Combeferre is wont to do. 

“Yes,” says Enjolras, after a moment, but Grantaire doesn’t think either of them know what he’s agreeing to. 

Grantaire tapes a bandage to Enjolras’s forehead. He does not mean to brace his hands against the side of his face, to feel the smooth skin, the fine bone structure. It happens anyways. “Right,” he says, again. 

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, like he’d already done a thousand times before.

“Yeah.” Grantaire sits back down. “Yeah, anytime.”

Enjolras is looking at something just past Grantaire’s shoulder. He tears his gaze away, when Grantaire sees, but Grantaire turns to look, and-

He’d been looking at his bookshelf, disorganized and haphazard but full enough, and Grantaire can’t help but smile, laugh a little breathlessly. “What, you-” 

Enjolras keeps his chin high, but Grantaire could swear that he’s flushed a little pink. “You have an impressive collection.” 

“Do you want-” God, he’s probably bored out of his fucking  _ mind _ , of course he wants a book, or something. “You can read anything you like. My apartment is at your disposal, bookshelf and all.”

He fidgets with the gauze wrapped around his fingers. “I couldn’t-”

“You should,” says Grantaire. “Here, look, what do you like to read? I’m sure I’ve got some old shit around somewhere, I’m serious. Do you know- Do you know de Balzac? I’m sure I’ve got de Balzac.”

Enjolras looks up, surprise written on his face for just a moment before it is carefully hidden away, but that’s enough for Grantaire to start searching the shelves. Fuck, Grantaire figures, if he got transported two centuries in the future, he’d want to read a book he’d heard of before, not some kind of future-book about future-things.

His selection’s a little limited--Jehan’s the Romantic, honestly, they’re the one with the box set--but he’s got an old copy of  _ Gobseck _ from, like, high school, and that’s better than he’d hoped for. He holds the book up for Enjolras to see, and-

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and his voice is soft.

“Oh?” Grantaire questions, and it’s fine, he’s sure he has, like… the Iliad, or something-

“I have read that book,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire’s voice catches in his throat for a moment. 

Grantaire scrambles to recover. “That’s cool, man, I might even have more de Balzac, or I’ve got a few classics, whatever you want, honest, I-”

“No!” Enjolras blurts it out, not- not  _ loud _ , but sudden, and almost-sharp. A second later, he looks mortified at his own gall. (Grantaire wants to smile, but doesn’t, because that would be weird.) “Um. I apologize, but.  _ Gobseck _ is fine, thank you. I would- I would be very happy to read it again.”

“Alright, then,” says Grantaire, and he lets himself smile, because it’s probably more normal to smile at a book transaction than, like, the way that Enjolras holds his head a little tilted and the way his hands move. He hands the book to Enjolras. 

Enjolras runs a hand over the cover, then gives Grantaire an awkward half-smile. “Thank you.” He stashes the book in the pocket of Grantaire’s hoodie. Grantaire feels a little warm inside.

He excuses himself to the spare bedroom, very formally and very awkwardly. Grantaire sits back down on the couch and opens his laptop and reads Enjolras’s essays more carefully than he’s ever done anything.

At half past one, Grantaire gets up and makes himself a sandwich with sobrasada and butter and arugula and cheese, and makes another for Enjolras. Only, the second sandwich turns out sloppy, a little crushed, so Grantaire switches the plates and knocks at the door of the guest bedroom with the better sandwich.

There’s no answer, so Grantaire knocks again, then opens the door slowly, and-

And Enjolras sits curled up in the armchair, reading. The book is propped up against his knees, and he squints at the page, just slightly. His hair has dried with a sort of haphazard exuberance--a lock hangs in front of his face, and he blows it out of the way every so often. One of his socked feet hangs over the edge of the chair.

“Enjolras?”

He startles, nearly dropping the book before he fumbles to catch it, fumbles to keep his place. Grantaire hadn’t mean to startle him. “I-” He sets the book down on the side-table. His breathing comes fast. “I did not hear you at the door.”

“Sorry.” Grantaire drums his fingers on the plate. “Um. Lunch?”

“Oh.” Enjolras looks… surprised, maybe. Not in a bad way, despite the lingering panic that Grantaire can practically smell, that practically hangs in the air like an electric charge, sharp and deep and rough. “Thank you.” He brushes the rogue curl out of his face. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

He shrugs. It feels awkward, even as he does it. “Yeah. I’ll just-” he waves vaguely at the desk in the corner. “I’ll set this here.”

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire leaves and shuts the door and sits back down on the couch. 

He calls Combeferre and doesn’t get an answer, so he leaves a message and tells him that Enjolras had taken a shower and that Grantaire had rewrapped his hands like the tutorial had said and that he was reading a book and that he had eaten breakfast with Grantaire and that Grantaire had left lunch in the bedroom for him.

He sits on the couch for a little while, then goes and washes the dishes and scrubs down all the countertops and reorganizes the pantry and throws out all the clutter that he’d let sit around for far too long--scrap paper, an old newspaper, a wine bottle, a menu from a takeout place he hadn’t particularly liked. 

He sits on the couch again, checks his phone, dicks around on Twitter, texts Joly but doesn’t quite know what to say. 

At half four, he sits on the ground and reorganizes his bookshelf and finds all of his de Balzac and puts the handful of books off to one side.

At five, he goes back to the kitchen and starts searing beef to make stew. He pokes gently at the onions and vinegar and garlic as they cook on the stove and thinks about the way Enjolras’s face had felt under his hand. He could draw him a little better, now, he figures, and he resolves to try. Maybe the way he had looked under the streetlamps, all grime and blood and panicked eyes. Maybe curled up in an armchair that Grantaire has had longer than he’s had the apartment, wearing Grantaire’s hoodie and squinting at the pages of a book that Grantaire’s scribbled notes in the margins of.

He adds the beef back into the pot and mulls it all over and scratches at his stomach absentmindedly.

When the stew is in the oven, Grantaire sits back down on the couch and turns on the episode of Chernobyl he’d been meaning to rewatch and tries his best to pay attention. He’s got his sketchbook on his lap, which isn’t helping, but he traces out the shape of Enjolras’s hands and the line of his jaw and he’s nearly satisfied with both.

At seven, he chops potatoes and carrots and watches a stupid video that Bahorel had sent him on his phone as he drops them into the stew. He texts Bahorel back while the stew keeps cooking.

He’s still texting Bahorel, caught up in discussing a tweet, when he looks up to see Enjolras standing off to the side, holding the plate the sandwich was on. 

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras. “Good evening, I-” he looks around, holds the plate out hesitantly. “I wanted to return this to you.”

Grantaire shuts his sketchbook as subtly as he can. “You can just put it in the sink if you want. You don’t have to wash it, I’ll do it later.”

“Of course.” He goes into the kitchen. Grantaire listens for the clink of china on metal--it comes impossibly soft, impossibly careful. “The food smells very good,” he says, when he returns. “You must be a very accomplished cook.”

Grantaire blushes against his will, ruddy and hot. “I do what I can,” he says, then, “It’s a beef stew. For dinner. Shit, you’re not a vegetarian, are you?” (He really hopes Enjolras doesn’t say yes, he’s already fed him meat twice.)

His brow furrows. “A vegetarian? Like- Like that Shelley fellow? I always found him rather gruesome.”

Grantaire cannot manage more than a shrug and a noncommittal noise. He is so far from the right person to consult about Percy Shelley’s potential vegetarianism. “Um.”

“I am not,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire tries not to breathe an audible sigh of relief. He nearly succeeds.

He swallows. “Good,” he says. “Cause it’s- it’s beef, you know.”

Enjolras is still standing in the center of the room. “I imagine that it is, indeed,” he says. Grantaire wants to kick himself.

“You can sit down, if you want.” Grantaire shuffles his laptop and his pencils and his phone off of the couch. “The stew’s not quite done yet, but it’s almost there, so. If you wanted to wait.”

Enjolras sits. From the pocket of Grantaire’s hoodie, he draws the copy of  _ Gobseck _ and opens it to a page marked with--Grantaire looks a little closer, subtle as he can, to check--a handkerchief, he thinks. Maybe some other small scrap of fabric, but it’s one that Grantaire has never seen before.

Grantaire texts Bahorel back.

The alarm on his phone goes off. Enjolras jumps. Grantaire swears. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just-” Enjolras is eyeing his phone warily. “The stew is done, that’s all, it’s nothing- nothing serious.” He flashes his phone screen at Enjolras, as though that would help him in any way.

“Oh,” says Enjolras. His hands are shaking.

“Sorry,” says Grantaire, again. He stands to get the stew out of the oven and curses himself all the way to the kitchen and all the way back. Enjolras is already sitting at the table when he returns to set the pot down on a trivet. “Do you want wine?” he asks.

“If you’ve enough to share,” says Enjolras. 

Grantaire gets the good wine glasses, because he is trying his very best to make some form of a good impression. “Always.”

They eat. Grantaire pours them each a glass of wine, some Burgundy he vaguely remembers getting as a gift. Enjolras drinks his slowly, shakes his head when Grantaire offers him a second glass.

“In all honesty,” Enjolras says. “I hold my wine poorly, and am better to keep just to the one.”

And hell, Grantaire won’t argue with that.

“The stew is very good,” offers Enjolras, when his bowl is nearly empty. “You’ve a good cut of beef, and you’ve cooked it well.”

Grantaire digs his fingernails into his thigh to keep himself from doing something mortifying. “Thanks,” he says, instead. “Do you want seconds?”

Enjolras does not answer, but he’s eyeing the pot, so Grantaire gives him another serving. He looks at Grantaire with a gratitude that makes his cheeks burn.

That night, Grantaire reads the fifth essay with a glass of wine in hand, and when he’s finished it, he opens up his sketchbook and tries to capture the way the morning light had played across the bridge of Enjolras’s nose.

Grantaire wakes. Enjolras is sitting at the table.

Grantaire very cooly does not jump and clutch at his chest like his great-aunt, he  _ doesn’t _ . “Hey,” he says, once he’s finished not clutching at his chest like his great-aunt. “Um. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Grantaire.” He sits up straight, head high, but he’s fidgeting with a whorl in the tabletop and he won’t quite meet Grantaire’s eye.

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face, tries to wake up even a little bit more. “Do you want-”

“I was hoping that I might borrow another book from your collection,” he says, almost too fast to catch. He looks embarrassed.

He takes a second to parse that without any coffee to aid him. “Course, yeah,” he mumbles. He feels last night’s wine, very faintly, in the back of his head. “I got- I found some more de Balzac yesterday, if you want.”

Enjolras nods jerkily.

Grantaire tosses him a copy of  _ Le Père Goriot _ about a second before he realizes that he probably shouldn’t throw books at concussed people, or at 19th century political philosophers. Such is the early morning.

Enjolras catches the book, anyways, and stows it away in the pocket of his hoodie before Grantaire is even done stewing over his error. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire takes a breath. It’s early, too early, still, but it’s getting hot, already. The sun streams bright through the windows, stripes lines across the floor. “Listen, um, d’you want breakfast? Coffee? I need both.”

“If it doesn’t trouble you,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire makes breakfast and coffee, frying up a few eggs and a bit of sausage and toasting yesterday’s bread. When he walks out of the kitchen, Enjolras is hastily shoving the book back into his pocket. Grantaire, in the spirit of trying-not-to-be-a-dick, says nothing and bites back a smile.

They eat their breakfast, drink the coffee.

“How’re you feeling?” Grantaire asks. “With, like, your head and all.”

Enjolras looks down at his coffee. “It’s-” He is silent for a long time. Grantaire almost wishes he hadn’t asked in the first place, if only so that Enjolras’s face wouldn’t look like that. “I feel the wounds are healing as fast as could be expected. But- Combeferre mentioned that I may have a concussion? Due to my fall?”

(He waits, as if for Grantaire. Grantaire nods.)

“I simply feel-” he swallows. “I apologize. I shouldn’t complain, particularly over a meal.”

“It’s cool,” says Grantaire, half-desperate, because he- he doesn’t  _ need _ to know, but he’d like to. “I’m your medical practitioner, or something, by now. I gotta stay on top of my patient.”

Enjolras hazards a glance up at Grantaire. “I do not believe that you have had any medical schooling to speak of, sir,” he says, soft enough that Grantaire nearly misses it, but it’s enough for Grantaire to snort, to have to swallow his coffee quick so he doesn’t spit it all out on the table. When he looks up, Enjolras is smiling--just a little quirk of the corner of his mouth, but he  _ is _ .

Enjolras excuses himself to the guest bedroom, after breakfast. Grantaire had expected as much, even just from the way he fidgets with the corner of the book in his pocket. What he hadn’t expected is-

Is for, while he’s reheating the leftover beef stew on the stove, Enjolras to sit down at the table and sit there quietly until Grantaire comes out of the kitchen with two bowls and the rest of the baguette.

Grantaire does not drop either bowl, but it’s a near miss, and he does swear. “Hey,” he says, when he’s finished all that.

“Hello,” says Enjolras.

They eat lunch. 

“The de Balzac,” Enjolras says, eventually. He doesn’t continue.

Grantaire swallows. “Yeah?”

He is picking with the edge of the gauze on his hand. Grantaire wants to reach over, to still his hands. He wants to watch the way they move for hours. “The two books. They share characters. I did not- I did not realize that-” He looks up at Grantaire. “I was not aware that they would.”

Grantaire nods. “Yeah, man, it’s like. De Balzac, that was his whole thing,  _ La Comédie Humain  _ and all. Most of his books are like that.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “And- And there are many of them?”

He can’t help but laugh. “I’d say. I haven’t even heard of most of them, you should talk to Jehan, they’re way too into it.”

Enjolras takes a bite of stew. “I was not aware that M. de Balzac had such designs, when I- When I first knew of his work,” he volunteers.

Grantaire makes an internal vow to bug Jehan until they agree to lend their whole collection. 

After lunch, Grantaire is watching a documentary about ancient Rome on Netflix and sketching halfheartedly when the door to the guest bedroom opens. He looks over; Enjolras stands awkwardly by the table, clutching the book.

He closes his sketchbook, sets it aside. “What’s up, man?”

Enjolras says nothing, but that might be Grantaire’s fault. 

“You can sit down, if you want,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras sits beside him on the couch. He opens the book, but doesn’t really- doesn’t really read, just- “What are you looking at?” He asks.

The documentary is still playing. Grantaire pauses it--he probably should have done so earlier. “It’s, um, it’s a documentary. About ancient Rome,” he says, because it is. “Like, a movie.”

“A movie,” Enjolras says, but he’s frowning. The word seems foreign on his tongue. 

Grantaire nods, but he’s trying to- he’s trying to think, trying to figure out how to explain any of it, and it’s  _ hard _ . “Like. Like, you know a picture?”

Enjolras has closed the book, but he holds it, still. “Like a painting?”

“Like a photograph,” he says, and he fumbles for his phone, pulls up a picture of him and Joly and Bossuet, hands it to Enjolras.

Enjolras takes it gingerly, squints at it. “That- That’s you.” Grantaire nods, takes the phone back. “That’s like- Niépce did work like that, did he not? Capturing the light, somehow?”

Fuck, Grantaire wishes he knew who Niépce was. “Um. And if you take a couple pictures, and they’re similar enough, and you look at them, one after another, they look like they’re moving.”

Enjolras gives him a look so skeptical that, were Grantaire not sure he knows how video works, would have him shriveling up somewhere within himself.

As it is, Grantaire scrolls the camera roll, shows the whole series of pictures, then does it again. “See, it’s- it looks like-”

“It moves,” says Enjolras, and he doesn’t look doubtful anymore. “It looks as though it moves.” He looks back up at the TV with wide eyes. “And- And they’ve done that?”

Grantaire hits play again. Enjolras stares, sets his book down. 

They watch the documentary. Grantaire watches Enjolras--he sits, arms wrapped around one of his shins to pull it close, and his posture is so far from proper that Grantaire is careful not to move, not to startle him, because surely he would fix it if he noticed he had slipped, so, but Grantaire- Grantaire doesn’t really want him to. 

Grantaire orders in Thai food for dinner. Enjolras looks mystified, when it arrives; shocked, when Grantaire suggests they eat in on the couch, as they watch the documentary, but he eats it all, plate balanced on one of his knees. 

Granatire gives him his leftover chicken satay and Enjolras smiles at him and Grantaire thinks, distinctly, that he is really, really fucked.

That night, Grantaire is awoken at half past two by a phone call. He fumbles for his phone in the dark, brings it to his ear, mumbles, “‘lo?”

“He’s unvaccinated,” says Combeferre, way too fast, considering he’d just woken him up very rudely.

Grantaire sits up in bed. “‘H’wha?”

“Enjolras. He’s unvaccinated. Holy shit.” Combeferre takes a few deep breaths. “Like, not even MMR. Totally, just- unvaccinated. Oh my God.”

“Oh my God,” echoes Grantaire, though not for the same reason. “Oh my God, Ferre, did you have to wake me up?”

“This is more important than your sleep schedule,” Combeferre says, and, like, Grantaire gets that it probably is, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. “And I’m working tomorrow, like, all day, so I called Joly and told him the whole situation and told him to pinch some vaccines from the clinic and to come over, because I think I’m gonna have a stress aneurysm.”

Grantaire is suddenly feeling a lot more awake. “Ferre, wait, you- you told Joly? You can’t just- You can’t just  _ tell people _ , oh my God, this is- this has to be secret, or something, what if- Fuck, he’s gonna think we’re crazy, this is crazy, you can’t-”

“He’s cool with it.”

“What?”

“He totally believed me. He’s cool with it, he just got a little freaked out about, like, Cholera, but he already got vaccinated for when he did that work in Haiti, so he’s coming over tomorrow.”

And- That’s better than Grantaire had been thinking, actually. “Oh,” he says. “Um. What time?”

“Probably the afternoon? He said he was doing brunch first. A brunch that you were invited to, apparently, but he says you’re exempt from Monday brunch because you have a 19th century revolutionary staying with you right now.”

Fuck, Grantaire was totally supposed to go to Monday brunch. At least Joly understands. “‘Kay,” he says. “Thanks, Ferre.” He really, really wants to go back to sleep.

“Alright, talk to you soon?”

“Mhm.” He is going to hang up in, seriously, like, ten seconds if Combeferre doesn’t wrap it up. He loves him, but he is too fucking tired. 

“Good night, Grantaire.”

“‘Night.” He hangs up and goes the fuck to sleep.

Grantaire doesn’t work on Mondays, since the museum is closed, but he wakes early, anyways. Enjolras is not at the table when Grantaire gets up to make breakfast, but he shuffles in a few minutes later, in the clothes that Grantaire had lent him the night before. 

“Hey,” says Grantaire, and the coffee is ready but the crêpes aren’t, so he hands Enjolras a mug as one of them cooks. 

“Good morning,” says Enjolras. He hovers off to the side, nearly in the kitchen but more in the doorway, really. “I was- I was hoping to ask a favor of you, although this may not be the most convenient time. I can wait, if you prefer.”

“No!” Grantaire says, too loud, too sudden, but Enjolras doesn’t flinch, not really. “No, yeah, anything. What do you need?”

He takes a breath, seems to steel himself. “I was hoping I might borrow a pen from you, and a book to write in. I can pay you back, I swear it, but I was just- I was just-” He breaks off.

And- And Grantaire can’t really do much that’s useful, and he’s so far from the best person for the situation, but this he can do. “Yeah, shit, of course, hold on, just-” He flips the crêpe that had been cooking onto a plate, pours another, then leads Enjolras into the other room. He’s sure he’s got an empty notebook somewhere, and- and there’s a pen he got from his dentist’s office on the coffee table, and-

There is a new pack of notebooks under his desk, and he pulls one from the plastic and returns, brandishing both. 

Enjolras takes them tentatively. “And- Of the ink?”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, and he takes the pen back. “No, it’s like-” He clicks the pen a few times, to demonstrate, then draws a squiggly line on the back of his own hand. “The ink’s inside, you don’t have to worry about it, see?” He clicks it again, hands it back. 

Enjolras clicks the pen. He draws a small line on the first page of the notebook, then smiles. “Oh,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” says Grantaire, and he goes back to the kitchen before his cheeks burn too pink to ignore.

Over breakfast, Grantaire tells Enjolras that Joly will be coming later, and Enjolras stiffens, slightly, but nods and says nothing. Grantaire doesn’t want to push it.

They finish breakfast in silence, but after they’ve cleared the table, Enjolras sits down on the couch beside Grantaire and jots things down in the notebook as Grantaire reads the news on his phone.

The knock on the door startles them both. It’s after lunch, that it happens, and Grantaire had almost forgotten that Joly was even coming, in all honesty. He jumps, swears, drops his phone.

Enjolras goes impossibly still, beside him.

Joly knocks again, harder this time, and Grantaire knows him, knows it’s all in good fun, but he’s pretty sure that Enjolras has stopped breathing.

“Enjolras?” he hazards, because Enjolras is- he looks  _ scared _ , really fucking scared.

He swallows, Grantaire can see it in his throat. “I-” He darts a look about himself. “I-”

Joly knocks for a third time, and Grantaire snaps, “I’m  _ coming,  _ Jesus,” because he’s pretty sure Enjolras’s hands are shaking, and Christ, but Joly could use to be a little more patient, right about now.

He answers the door, gaze still locked on Enjolras for a second too long. When he looks, he sees Joly and beside him, Bossuet, beaming brightly and holding a styrofoam cooler. 

“R!” says Joly. “R, I hear you have a new roommate.”

By the couch, Enjolras has bolted to his feet. He holds his posture straight, but he looks around like a panicked deer. 

Fuck.

He sighs. “Yeah, listen, um. He’s not really my roommate, by the way, but- Why is Boss here? Boss, why are you here?”

Bossuet shrugs. “Haven’t seen you in a while, and I heard you found a political revolutionary from the 19th century. Thought I’d tag along.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure he saw Bossuet on Wednesday night, actually, but to be fair, that is much longer than average. He sighs. “Yeah, fine, fine, just. Just keep it down, okay, he’s-” He lets them in, shuts the door behind them and locks it, and-

Enjolras takes a stumbled step backwards; Grantaire can see the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest, even from across the room. Fuck, maybe he should have told Combeferre to wait on the whole vaccination thing, maybe he should have told Enjolras more about it, maybe he should have been slightly less of a dick about this entire situation.

“Hi,” says Joly, and Grantaire has never heard complaint about Joly’s bedside manner, but that’s not- that’s not the fucking problem here, and Enjolras is still looking around like he’s trying to escape.

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire, and he takes a few steps towards him, and he doesn’t shy away further, at the very least. “Enj, these are Joly and Bossuet, they’re friends of me and Combeferre, and Joly’s a doctor, okay? Ferre told them about the whole- whole  _ situation _ , and it’s cool, they’re cool, you know?”

Enjolras turns wide, wide eyes to Grantaire. “I-” He swallows. “Um-”

Grantaire is a little afraid that Enjolras is going to, like, fall over, or something, so he sets a hand on his shoulder, presses him down to sit back down on the couch, and he goes willingly. (Grantaire hadn’t really expected it to  _ work _ .) He sits down beside him. 

Joly and Bossuet hang back by the door, at the very least.

“It’s cool,” Grantaire says, because Enjolras still looks so frightened, and it tears at something deep in Grantaire’s gut. “Listen, Joly just needs to- to make sure you’re fine, is it alright if they sit down?”

Enjolras nods, after a beat. 

Bossuet takes a seat in the armchair. Joly drags a chair over from the table to sit across the coffee table from Enjolras. He extends a hand. Enjolras shakes it. “I’m Joly,” says Joly. “And that’s Bossuet,” he says, pointing at Bossuet.

“I am Enjolras,” says Enjolras, and Joly beams, then reaches into his bag for a clipboard.

“Right,” he says. “What I’m here to do, basically, is- There’s a lot of harmful diseases, right, and especially since you’re used to different illnesses than what we have nowadays, it’s important that- Basically, we can protect people, nowadays, by putting a little bit of the disease in their body, and it’s small enough that they can fight it off, but it protects them in the future, and-” He fades off.

Enjolras is giving Joly a particularly withering look. Grantaire is quite glad that he is not on the receiving end of it. “I  _ have _ been inoculated for smallpox, you know,” he says. “I may not be from your time, but I am not a child. I understand how vaccines work.”

Joly lets out an audible breath of relief. “Sorry. Okay. Um. I have to give you a lot of them.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Cool. This is easier than I expected.” He hands Enjolras the clipboard. “You can sign there on the line, if you want, it’s just for- Like, it doesn’t really matter, since I’m kinda doing this illegally anyways cause I took the vaccines from the clinic, but I generally like to uphold medical consent when I can.”

“Good,” says Enjolras, and he takes the pen and the clipboard and signs his name as Joly opens the styrofoam cooler. (Grantaire looks over his shoulder. It looks like a signature off a historical document, and he thinks it’s pretty funny until he realizes that it just makes sense.) 

Joly has got an array of hypodermic needles, all lined up on the coffee table, and he sits down beside Enjolras on the couch. Enjolras only flinches a little bit, and he flinches towards Grantaire, which shouldn’t make Grantaire feel as warm inside as it does. “Great,” says Joly. “I just need you to take the hoodie off?”

Enjolras looks at him blankly.

Grantaire tugs at his sleeve. “The- The this thing. It’s a hoodie.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and he- he blushes, a little, and his hands hover uncertainly over the edge of it before he does so. When he pulls it off, it leaves his curls even more disheveled. Grantaire kind of wants to draw them.

Joly wipes at his shoulder with an alcohol swab, picks up a needle, and-

“What are you doing?” Enjolras has shied back further towards Grantaire, away from Joly’s hands.

Joly frowns. “It’s the vaccine. It’s a hypodermic needle, and-”

“It goes under the skin?” Enjolras asks, and- and Grantaire can’t be sure, but he thinks his voice wavers, a little bit.

“Oh,” says Joly. “Yeah, it’s- It doesn’t hurt that badly, but it’ll ache, a little. It’s not as bad as you’d think.”

Enjolras nods. His jaw is set firm.

“Relax,” says Joly, but when he does the first two vaccines, Enjolras grabs for Grantaire’s forearm and holds so tight it feels as though it’ll bruise.

Joly produces a fruit tart from his tote bag, after he’s put away all the needles and the alcohol swabs and the paper scraps from the band-aids. “It’s, like, a welcome gift. A welcome to the 21st century gift. Me and Boss thought it’d be appropriate.”

Grantaire is halfway to saying that  _ Now is not the time, guys, come on, give him a few days _ , when Enjolras just smiles, a little crookedly but mostly just brightly. “Oh,” he says. “Thank you very much.”

Joly smiles back. Bossuet pulls a bottle of rosé from his own bag and sets it down on the coffee table. 

They stay and eat the tart around the coffee table with Grantaire and Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t say much at all, but he eats his slice of tart and drinks a glass of wine and when Bossuet ropes him into their discussion about the official ranking of fruit tart fruits, he says that he “has always liked the raspberries best,” and hell, that’s more than Grantaire’s gotten out of him, anyways.

(Grantaire resolves to pick up some raspberries, the next time he goes shopping. And maybe a bottle of the rosé--it’s just nice. The fact that Enjolras seems to like it has nothing to do with it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *me, beating my readers over the head with a rolled up newspaper*: grantaire can cook! grantaire cooks stew! grantaire cooks well! grantaire bought stupid expensive chef's knives and talks about them a little too much! grantaire is gifted in the culinary arts!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes. The ceiling above him is made of perfect, bright white plaster. It is the same ceiling he has awoken to for a week, now.
> 
> He does not know why he is still alive.
> 
> Grantaire is in the kitchen, banging pots and pans and those impossibly perfect dishes of his. He is- He is warm, somehow, and he cooks food that is warm, too, and he lends Enjolras books and there is a lot that Enjolras does not understand, in this world, but mostly he does not understand why Grantaire has allowed him to stay.

Enjolras wakes. The ceiling above him is made of perfect, bright white plaster. It is the same ceiling he has awoken to for a week, now.

He does not know why he is still alive.

Grantaire is in the kitchen, banging pots and pans and those impossibly perfect dishes of his. He is- He is  _ warm _ , somehow, and he cooks food that is warm, too, and he lends Enjolras books and there is a lot that Enjolras does not understand, in this world, but mostly he does not understand why Grantaire has allowed him to stay. 

He had expected for Grantaire to have him leave days ago, once his wounds had healed enough not to reopen and his head had cleared of most of the lingering fog and ache. He had expected- At the very least, he had expected for Grantaire to warn him, to give him some sort of time frame to hold in mind, but- but he hadn’t. Instead, he cooks Enjolras breakfast and lends him clothes and watches… movings, is it? Movings, with him, and stops them to explain the things that Enjolras does not understand before Enjolras even asks.

Enjolras gets up, makes the bed. His clothes, his proper clothes, still hang over the back of a chair. He has not touched them since that first day, cannot bear to, for--he feels the jolt of a carbine under his hands, hears the spray of grapeshot against brick and there is a man at his feet with a hole in his gut and a hole in his jaw and he is grasping at the hem of Enjolras’s trousers but Enjolras cannot stay, cannot comfort him, cannot help him, and-

He swallows. His heart is pounding, hammering an uneven drum-beat in his chest that rises loud in his skull and presses the breath from his lungs and-

He fumbles behind himself for the edge of the mattress, sits down heavily upon it, forces himself to draw a breath in, slowly, and then out, and then in again.

His hands are shaking, where they clutch at the quilt. He knows the embroidery well, by now--tiny, perfect, bright--and he presses it smooth as he does what he can to breathe.

When he can bring himself to stand, once more; when his head no longer spins as though it intends to do him in; when he no longer feels the ticking of a pocket-watch under the bruised skin of his hand--he rises, slips off his sleep-clothes, pulls on one of the pairs of soft trousers and a pair of thin, ribbed socks and one of the shirts with only a scrap of sleeve, the ones that Grantaire wears comfortably but that Enjolras cannot quite acclimate to, not yet. 

Outside, it is hot, or nearly so; he has yet to open the shutters--it is difficult to bring himself to do so, to bring himself to look out at a city which he does not recognize, a city which does not recognize him--and yet the morning light that seeps through the perfect glass of the window is bright and strong and it stifles the room like a blanket. He dons the hoodie nonetheless. He has known summer heat before, and known it in redingotes and waistcoats and all, and yet-

And yet, he must admit, it is somewhat tempting to do as Grantaire is wont to do, to wear nothing but a thin shirt with nothing beneath, to bare his arms with a sort of brash confidence and lean casually against walls and door frames and expose a strip of gut when he reaches up to stretch and-

Well. Perhaps not  _ all  _ of that.

He keeps the hoodie on. It has its uses, anyways; he slips the diary book Grantaire had given him into the large pocket, and beside it the strange, inkless pen and the novel. When he pushes the bedroom door open, Grantaire isn’t at the table, isn’t on the couch, which means he must be in the kitchen, and-

Grantaire stands at the stove, stirring something in a pan and speaking into that strange glass rectangle, where he’s pinned it between his shoulder and his ear. His back is turned to Enjolras, oblivious in the morning light, and it is that same morning light which glances off of strong, bared shoulders and arms and neck, for Grantaire wears naught but a slip of fabric that Enjolras hesitates to call a shirt, for it lacks even a hint of sleeve, and it clings to Grantaire’s back when he moves, and-

His throat sticks. He feels, somewhat, as though he oughtn’t be here, as though he ought to go back to his bedroom and read for a while and maybe by the time he returns Grantaire will have changed into something a might more modest. Perhaps Grantaire had forgotten that he had taken Enjolras in; perhaps he had dressed on the assumption that he was alone in the apartment, for clearly the shirt he wore now could not be meant for company. Not for respectful company, at the very least.

Enjolras is not feeling particularly respectful, of course, but that isn’t- that isn’t something that Grantaire needs to know. He’s contemplating that very fact, too, when Grantaire sets the device he’d been talking into down and moves to turn, and if Enjolras does not greet him now he will have revealed the fact that he had been standing there and  _ not  _ intending to greet him, which is… worse, probably, than simply having snuck up on him, and so he settles on the middle ground and simply freezes in place, eyes wide.

Damn his susceptible constitution.

It is easy to tell when Grantaire notices him, there in the doorway, for he startles and drops his spatula and swears. “Hey,” says Grantaire, once he has recovered somewhat.

Enjolras prays to whatever God that there may be that the flush he feels, under his skin, does not show on the surface, but he has little hope. “Good morning,” he manages.

Grantaire picks up the spatula somewhat sheepishly. “Hey,” he says again, “Do you want breakfast?” He asks, as he does every morning, and Enjolras nearly wishes that he  _ wouldn’t _ , for Grantaire can’t possibly- he can’t possibly  _ want  _ to, can’t possibly want to make his meals twice over, can’t possibly want to waste his coffee on a stranger, can’t possibly want to share a table with him. Enjolras wasn’t even good conversation when he was in his own time, when he understood the world around him and when he could think straight and when he didn’t have that constant backdrop of grapeshot-ticking-shouting at the back of his mind. 

And yet- “If it doesn’t trouble you,” he says, because it’s  _ easy _ , because he may be selfish for accepting his offer, but he-

He  _ likes _ eating with Grantaire, likes when Grantaire speaks of things he does not understand, likes when Grantaire is kind to him and when he looks at Enjolras as though he understands, and he  _ doesn’t _ , he can’t, but. It’s nice, anyhow.

“Cool,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras, he doesn’t- he doesn’t know what he means, never knows what he means, so he keeps his hands buried deep in the pocket of the hoodie and does his best to hold his posture and rolls the word over and over in his mind.

“Cool,” he tries, and it comes out more like a question than anything else, but he supposes that’s rather fitting. Likely, he has made a fool of himself, as he seems to do so often, and for all that he assures himself that it is a necessary step in learning, his cheeks heat.

Grantaire does not look as though Enjolras has embarrassed himself. Rather, he grins, bright and surprised, and (and Enjolras’s heart stutters, for a moment, in his chest) huffs a laugh. “Yeah, man, fucking cool.” He claps a hand to Enjolras’s shoulder--only for a moment, as he passes to grab what remains of yesterday’s bread from the counter, but it’s enough to make his breath catch.

Enjolras runs his thumb over the crease at the corner of the cover of the novel in his pocket. “What-” he clears his throat. “What are you cooking?”

He does not feel as though he entirely merits the smile Grantaire gives him. “Sausage, eggs, toast. Breakfasty stuff.” He beckons Enjolras closer, and Enjolras goes along with him to look down at a finely crafted skillet filled with sizzling meat and fat. “Watch the pan awhile?” he asks, and Enjolras is not skilled in cookery, never has been, but he nods, and when Grantaire pushes the spatula into his hand, he takes it.

Grantaire leaves the kitchen--where he goes, and to do what, Enjolras cannot say. He also cannot say, for that matter, what he ought to watch the pan  _ for _ , but he stares down at the meat cooking and prods at it, somewhat. Probably, he figures, cookery has remained much the same, and guards the same principals; probably, if he knew what those principals  _ were _ , he might be of greater use. As it is, he figures the sausage oughtn’t burn, and that- perhaps, that the flame below the pan should stay lit, and- That comprises most of what he can manage.

One of the rounds of sausage spits oil with a  _ pop _ . Enjolras prods at it with the spatula and hopes that he is not ruining Grantaire’s breakfast with his negligible cookery skills. 

In the other room, Enjolras can hear Grantaire doing… something. “Alright in there?” Grantaire calls, over the sound of the pan and whatever it is that he is doing, 

Enjolras does not know if he is meant to call back. It seems horribly rude to do so, to- to  _ yell _ , in someone else’s apartment, and--and something sour like bile rises in his throat--the thought of raising his voice, so, of feeling the grate of it, of hearing his own voice so loud in his head, it- it reeks of smoke and gunpowder and the sticky iron stench of blood, and-

“Jolras?” Grantaire calls, and Enjolras wants to answer, but his voice sticks in his throat. He wants- He wants- “Hey, man, you good?” Grantaire is at the doorway, newspaper held in hand and a look of concern upon his face.

Enjolras looks down at his own hands where they have stayed, frozen, somewhere between his body and the pan. “I-” he shakes his head, hopes to clear it, and is only somewhat successful. “I, um. The-” There is a ringing in his ears, and the spray of grapeshot, and- “The sausage, it is. I do not know how to cook sausage.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. He convinces the spatula from Enjolras’s fingers--too tight around the handle, anyways--and prods at a few rounds. “You did fine. Sausage’s easy, anyways. You just pop it in a pan and eat it when you feel like it.”

“Providing it has yet to burn,” Enjolras hears himself say, and his voice shakes, a little, and he hadn’t even meant to say it--he’s rather bad at politesse, always has been, and he would expect a cutting remark for it, typically, only- only Grantaire never does do that, never really ever reacts but to smile softly and huff a laugh. It’s- It’s nice. Nice not to worry about it.

“Providing that, yeah.” Grantaire resumes his place at the stove. “Grab me a couple plates, will you?”

“I-” It takes him a moment, sometimes, to parse Grantaire’s words--it’s as though he fits them together in a way that Enjolras cannot quite grasp, a half-riddle for him alone. “Where-”

Grantaire just tilts his head towards a cupboard to Enjolras’s left. “Second shelf, any of them’s fine.”

Enjolras takes two plates from the cupboard and holds them out to Grantaire as he scoops the sausages from the pan onto each one. Grantaire still wears the strange, sleeveless shirt; Enjolras does what he can to keep his gaze far from his shoulders, from the curve of his wrist. He cannot quite say whether or not he succeeds.

He stands and watches Grantaire fry eggs and make toast and takes the plates to the table when Grantaire tells him to do so and sits and waits until Grantaire has returned with the coffee to start eating, and when he has, when they both have, Grantaire sits back in his chair and sips his coffee and says, at long last, “So.”

Enjolras looks up. Grantaire is watching him. “So?” he asks.

“So, tell me,” he sets the mug down. “Any sordid affairs?”

Enjolras chokes on a bit of egg. When he has recovered himself somewhat, he sets his fork down. “I beg your pardon?” Surely, he reasons, Grantaire cannot possibly be asking about- 

“You know, love affairs. Girlfriends, sweethearts, the like?”

He cannot help the way in which he blanches. Certainly he did not have any… any  _ girlfriends _ , to speak of, though surely that is not the kind of information he can give Grantaire as explanation. Though it’s not as if he has very much to defend, either, for- “Of course not.” He clears his throat, takes a sip of coffee as he scrambles for the appropriate words. “My one love was always of my country and of her people. I could not afford any such distractions.”

“Right,” says Grantaire. He seems suddenly occupied with the depths of his coffee. “But, like. Did you ever  _ like _ anyone?”

He frowns. “Like anyone?”

“Like. You know. Want anyone? Think about anyone more than you should?”

He thought of-

Of the boy who sold mushrooms at the market on Thursdays, back in Drôme, who was a few years older than Enjolras and who had wild, dark hair and three fingers on his left hand as a result of a woodcutting accident and who never really spoke to Enjolras but who smiled at him when he walked by. Of a fellow in one of his classes, upon his move to Paris, who spoke Provençal, the same as Enjolras, and who invited him over for tea, a few times, and kissed him, just the once. Of the young man at the printing shop that had published Enjolras’s essays, who had warm brown eyes and warm brown skin and who read each essay as Enjolras had written them and told him exactly what he’d thought, honest and kind and  _ smart _ . Of-

Of Grantaire, there across the table from him in a shirt that shows his shoulders and whose hair is all askew in the morning light and who smiles as though he means it and who had taken Enjolras in, taken him home with him, who-

He clears his throat. “I  _ liked _ the liberation of my countrymen from tyrannical rule, and the freedom promised from that action, futile as it may have been.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire, and then he says nothing, and Enjolras would curse himself for wrecking the conversation had it not been one that would surely end in disaster, anyways. As it is, he eats his sausage and does his best to ignore the sensation of Grantaire’s gaze.

They finish the meal in silence, but Grantaire takes his plate, after, and washes it for him without complaint, so Enjolras considers himself lucky enough.

Combeferre is at the apartment. He’d come over to- to  _ check on  _ Enjolras, he’d said, only Enjolras hadn’t seen any medical supplies, and from his satchel he’d pulled a paper bag of croissants and a bottle of white wine and a container of the largest strawberries Enjolras had ever seen. Grantaire had been out--Combeferre asked Enjolras where he’d gone, but Enjolras hadn’t even understood Grantaire when he’d told him, couldn’t recall.

They sit on the balcony. Combeferre has brought with him a book for writing in, and he asks Enjolras questions about wars and music and clothing and politics and Enjolras drinks his wine and questions him back and writes down the answers in his own book, in turn. 

The horseless metal carriages that careen through the street below are called “cars,” and they run on a certain engine, one somewhat alike to that of a steam locomotive but which burns an oil, instead of coal.

The rough blue trousers that Combeferre wears are called “blue jeans,” and they are a casual sort of trouser, and despite their name, they can be black or white or any host of other, vibrant colors, although--and this is where he had gotten unsure, in the conversation--he cannot quite say whether or not they should still then be called “blue jeans,” or whether they are then black jeans or white jeans or green jeans, respectively.

There is a locomotive beneath the streets of Paris, which anyone may ride anywhere for vaguely less than two “Euros,” and a “Euro,” is the currency in France, now, as it is in much of Europe.

The strawberries are so large because they have been specifically bred to be so.

The material that the container of the strawberries is made of is called “plastic,” and it takes on many forms, depending on how it is treated. The stuffing inside of the seat cushions is made of plastic. The elastic waist and ankles of the pants that Enjolras wears are made of plastic. Most cars, though they shine like a metal, are largely covered in plastic. The cork of the wine bottle is not made of cork, but is made of plastic.

The word “okay,” means “yes,” or “good,” or “fine.”

The word “cool,” also means “yes,” or “good,” or “fine,” but it also means something else, but Enjolras hadn’t understood what.

Women are of equal status to men, or, at least, they are supposed to be. They may now have dreams beyond marriage and children. They may be inventors or doctors or writers or journalists or lawyers.

Those from Africa, or from Asia, or from the Americas, are of equal status, or, at least, they are supposed to be. 

France no longer has a king. It has been a century and a half since France has had a monarch. The people cast votes, and choose their representatives.

It has been longer, still, since France has permitted the enslavement of men within her territories. France has been, for the most part, pushed back from her colonies, back into her own borders--good riddance, Enjolras resolves. 

It-

It is these last four points, there on the page, that cause Enjolras to pause, just for a moment, because-

Because-

He had hoped for such things, of course. At times, it seems as though he had done nothing  _ but _ hope for such things. He had worked and killed and died for them, and he-

He-

“Enj?” Combeferre rests a hand on his forearm. Enjolras comes to the realization that he does not quite know for how long he has been running those points, those four points, over and over in his mind.

He tears his gaze from the page. It is harder than he would have expected. “I apologize,” he says, and his voice breaks, despite his will. His eyes are burning. There is something tight, at the back of his throat. “I find myself distracted. What is it that you asked of me?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras wants to protest, but he cannot bring himself to do so.

He shuts the notebook and rests his arms on the railing of the balcony and watches the- the  _ cars _ , on the street below. After a moment’s hesitation, Combeferre does the same. 

“I guess-” Combeferre rests his chin on his arm. “I can’t imagine how different the world must be, for you.”

Enjolras scrubs at his eyes--perhaps in anticipation of tears, perhaps in reaction to them. It’s difficult to discern, at times. “It is,” he says. 

They sit in silence.

“I-” Enjolras watches as two doves fight over a scrap of greased paper on the street. “At times, I recognize none of it at all.”

He does not anticipate the hand which comes to rest at his shoulder, steady and warm, but he appreciates it, all the same. 

They sit, just like that, for some time. Combeferre hands him strawberries through the metal railing. 

On the street below, two men pass by, hand in hand. They seem- close, intimate, even. One of them holds a bag of fruit; the other, a loaf of bread. They talk amongst themselves--of what, Enjolras cannot say, for he cannot quite make out the words, and he watches them as they go by.

He watches them, which means that he is already looking when they kiss, brief and soft. 

Enjolras jerks his head up to look at Combeferre. Combeferre is already watching him with something scrutinous in his eyes. He curses himself--he shouldn’t have reacted, should have pretended that he saw nothing at all. Perhaps Combeferre might not have even taken notice, had he been more prudent.

He swallows. There is no point in pretending now, he supposes. “I- Those men,” he hazards, and Combeferre stiffens. He cannot bring himself to continue.

“Yes?” Prompts Combeferre. There is some sort of challenge in his voice, but Enjolras does not know- he does not know what he is meant to  _ say _ .

“They were-” It feels too much like an admission, to say anything more. He looks to Combeferre, but his expression is still inscrutable and hard and sharp, suddenly.

“They were kissing,” provides Combeferre.

“Yes,” says Enjolras. His hands are shaking; he holds tight to the railing and wills them to still.

Combeferre waits.

“They- They were not fearful?” He watches them round the corner. “They just- Anyone might have seen, were they not fearful?”

Combeferre scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, so. So the world is a lot different, now, right? There’s a lot that’s changed.”

Enjolras nods jerkily. He does not quite know where Combeferre is going, with this--or, rather, he does not dare to hope. 

“Right, okay, like. Like, women have more rights now.”

“Yes.” Yes, they can be inventors or doctors or writers or journalists or lawyers, or anything else.

“And gay people have more rights now, too, and I know that that wasn’t really-”

“Gay people?” Enjolras doesn’t- he doesn’t  _ understand _ .

Combeferre takes a breath, deep in his chest. “Men who like men romantically. And women who like women. Gay people.”

Enjolras runs it over and over in his mind. Gay. Gay, men who like men romantically. Men who like men who work at market stalls and who speak Provençal and who work at printing shops. (Men who like men who wear shirts without sleeves and who cook beef stew and who lend books, his mind provides unhelpfully.) “Yes,” he says, and then, because it’s written in his notebook, “Okay.”

“It’s a normal thing,” Combeferre says, as though Enjolras doesn’t _ know  _ that, but then he says, “Men can marry men, now. And women can marry women. It’s okay, now.”

Combeferre cannot truly be saying what Enjolras thinks he is, Enjolras must be hearing him wrong. “Okay,” says Enjolras. 

He keeps speaking. “It’s something that you’re gonna have to get used to. I know it’s new, but it’s important. Especially with Grantaire and I’s friends, you can’t- it’s just something that you’re gonna have to get used to, you-”

“But-” Enjolras did not intend to interrupt, but he needs- he needs to know- “Um. But. If you had an- an acquaintance, say. And they revealed to you that they were-” he searches for the word- “Gay. You would not-” He cannot quite get the words out. Combeferre waits. “You would respect them, still? You would-” he swallows. His hands are still shaking. “You would love them all the same?”

That harsh set to Combeferre’s jaw softens, then melts away. Enjolras cannot bear to see the look of comprehension that settles in its stead. “I would.” He reaches out, slow and careful, and brushes a curl from out of Enjolras’s eyes. “So would Grantaire, you know.”

“I-” His voice breaks. He cannot quite say when he started crying. “Are you certain?” he asks.

And then-

And then he is being pulled into an embrace, being held close and firm against Combeferre’s chest, and he has never- he has never- 

“I’m certain,” says Combeferre. “Really, really certain.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and he lets Combeferre hold him tight. His face is pressed to fine cotton, and it muffles his words, when he speaks, but not nearly enough. “Please do not tell Grantaire,” he chokes out.

Combeferre makes a noise, one that rumbles sad and low in the back of his throat. “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Enjolras does not think he has ever been so grateful for anyone in all of his life. 

(That is a lie. He can think of exactly one person for whom he has been more grateful, but-)

It takes a few minutes for Enjolras to regain his composure. When he has, when he has wiped at his cheeks with the cuffs of his sleeves and taken a few deep breaths, Combeferre refills both of their wine glasses and sits back in his chair. “You know,” says Combeferre. “Joly and Bossuet are a couple.”

Enjolras pauses, glass halfway to his mouth. That- That makes sense, he supposes; they’d seemed so close, when they’d come to visit. Perhaps he should have been able to guess as much. Perhaps, he thinks, just a moment too late, he ought to hide the smile that rises to his cheeks, because even if- Combeferre must surely suspect, by now, but surely-

“I’m also gay,” says Combeferre, and Enjolras has to set his wine down before he drops it on the stone of the balcony.

He chokes on his own saliva. “Oh,” he says, when he can breathe once more. Because he hadn’t- he hadn’t thought-

“Grantaire is gay,” says Combeferre, who hadn’t given him nearly enough time to recover. 

Enjolras feels his cheeks heat. “I-” He clears his throat. “I. Um.” The tabletop is suddenly quite interesting, he notes. Much easier to look at than to meet Combeferre’s gaze. “Oh.”

Combeferre laughs, but it’s- kind. Warm. “You’ll be okay, man,” he says, and Enjolras really, really wants to believe him.

Grantaire returns, hours later, with a large, brown, paper bag under his arm. Food, Enjolras can guess, for with him he brings the smell of hot spices and meat and odors he cannot identify. He and Combeferre are already rather cup-shot, having gone through the bottle that Combeferre brought and then another bottle or so, from Grantaire’s kitchen, and they are watching a Moving about a vampire. Enjolras cannot help but to smile when Grantaire enters. “Grantaire,” he says, and he lets his head loll back on the sofa. “Good evening.”

Grantaire smiles, too. Enjolras quite likes when Grantaire smiles. “Hey.” He shakes the bag. “Brought Indian. What are you guys up to?”

“We are watching a Moving,” says Enjolras, and he is looking at the bag, because he has never had food from India before, but if it tastes as it smells, he shall quickly lose any lingering, bony traces of the student’s lifestyle and resign himself to a life of lamb and cumin.

Combeferre knocks his foot against Enjolras’s ankle. “A movie,” he corrects, gently.

Enjolras does not think that he would blush, so, were Grantaire not returned. “A movie,” he repeats. “It is about a vampire.”

Grantaire sets the bag down on the low table at the front of the sofa and sits down beside Enjolras with a heavy groan. “God, I fucking hate meetings.”

“I have attended a great deal of meetings, largely on the subject of revolution and overthrowing an unjust monarchy,” Enjolras offers, because he is feeling bold, because Grantaire is looking at him. “And I do firmly believe that, barring such essential topics, they are much better in the form of a letter, which very rarely wastes the entirety of one’s afternoon.”

There is a moment, when Grantaire just…  _ looks _ at him, in which Enjolras is sure that he has erred, somehow, but then a broad smile cracks his cheeks like a ray of light, and he’s laughing, loud and brash and lovely. “Yeah, that hasn’t fucking changed at all.” 

Combeferre scrubs a hand over his face, then stands. “Yeah, thank God for the historical continuity of useless bureaucracy,” he says, as he makes his way to the kitchen. Enjolras can hear him fetching dishes from the cupboards, grabbing cutlery.

Grantaire makes no move to bring the food to the table, and Enjolras- Enjolras really shouldn’t revel in the thrill of something so simple, of eating dinner, a full dinner, on the sofa--when a guest has come to visit, no less--but-

He cannot help but to feel somewhat excited, at the thought. 

He would never dare do such a thing, in his own apartment. He had never met anyone who did so, before, so far as he knows.

“Are we to eat here?” Enjolras asks, soft enough that Grantaire might ignore him, if he would prefer not to acknowledge his lack of tact.

Grantaire frowns. “Do you- Fuck, do you want to eat at the table, instead? I should’ve- I wasn’t even thinking, but I’m sure you-”

“No,” says Enjolras, and he does his very best not to care that he is interrupting. “I would like to eat here. If you would like to.” And then, because the frown remains on Grantaire’s face, because he has not said enough, clearly, “I enjoy it. It’s rather novel, you know.” He cannot help the smile that twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” says Grantaire. He has stopped frowning. A strange ruddiness has risen to his cheeks.

Combeferre returns with the plates. Enjolras holds the one he is handed and listens as Grantaire explains what is in each of the plastic containers: seasoned, fragrant rice with lamb; cubes of fried, fresh cheese in a spinach sauce; a spicy cream sauce, comprised of cashew-nuts, again with lamb (Enjolras is beginning to think that Grantaire may have a preference); soft flatbread with garlic, still warm; crunchy, fried pastries filled with spiced meat and vegetables; fried, battered cauliflower in a hot garlicky sauce; sweet yogurt drinks, flavored with mango, one for the each of them. It’s all a bit of a feast. Enjolras does not think that he has ever been faced with quite so much food, except for possibly at Christmas, when he was a child. 

He says as much, to Grantaire, and Grantaire takes the plate from his hands and serves him a bit of everything, never mind the practical limits of the human gut. 

The movie plays on. Enjolras balances his plate on his knees and stuffs himself on warm sauces and rice and bread.

Grantaire leans back, lays an arm-- not over Enjolras’s shoulders, truly, but over the back of the sofa, and behind him, and Enjolras can feel the warmth from his skin. “So?” Grantaire asks, oblivious both to Enjolras’s thoughts and to the food which he has in his mouth.

“Hhmphn?” Enjolras manages, as eloquently as always. He does his best to swallow, but does not truly succeed.

It’s an exhibition of truly horribly comportment--Enjolras knows this--but Grantaire only stifles a laugh and jostles his knee against Enjolras’s own. “How do you like it?”

“‘S-” He swallows. “Apologies. It is- It- I do not believe that I have ever eaten anything quite so enjoyable.”

Combeferre narrows his eyes, but there’s a glint to them. And besides, Enjolras, he- he can’t help but to feel a little more trusting, can he? Not after the afternoon he’s had. Not after all that Combeferre had said. “I seem to remember Grantaire mentioning that you said something similar about cup ramen,” he teases.

Enjolras scowls at him. “Well, I had yet to have- to have-” he gestures at the dish with the cashew-nuts.

“Lamb korma,” Combeferre provides. 

“Yes, thank you, lamb korma, at the time, had I not? Can a man not find himself of modified opinion from time to time?” He struggles to hold his expression steady; Combeferre’s own shaking shoulders do not help. 

Combeferre shakes his head. “You grow less trustworthy by the day.” And he laughs, then, and reaches up to ruffle Enjolras’s hair, and-

And Enjolras is struck, just for a moment, by it all. Because- Because he’s no  _ hermit _ , he’s had several acquaintances over the years, but he cannot remember any of them ever being so comfortable around him. He sits on Grantaire’s sofa, eating dinner on his knees, and Grantaire has an arm about his shoulders and a knee pressed up against his and Combeferre has embraced him twice, now, and he knows that this is indicative of kindness and obligation, not friendship, but-

He wishes he could lean a little further into the touch, anyways.

Never mind that.

He straightens his posture, keeps his chin high. The filled pastry may detract from his image, somewhat, but it cannot be helped. “I, sir,” he says, “am a paragon of politesse and principals.”

At his side, Grantaire pauses, for a moment. “I- Are you?” He asks, and the question carries a tint of genuinity, of uncertainty, that does something odd to Enjolras’s heart.

And-

(And he thinks of things like being ten years old and shrieking with laughter as his cousin hurled him, fully dressed, into a pond on the edge of the property; of being seventeen and crying far too openly for his age in the carriage on the way to Paris; of speaking French, when there were others around, but of speaking Provençal, softly, with the young man from his lecture, and of kissing him, after; of scrambling through back-alleys and side-roads with two rifles stuffed beneath his coat; of eating Indian food on the sofa and watching a movie about vampires, all the while.)

“No,” he says. “That was a falsehood.”

Grantaire snorts a laugh, shakes his head. “Yeah, okay.”

They finish the meal. Enjolras eats more than he would ever thought possible. The movie plays on.

Enjolras is  _ not _ paying the humming noise any mind. He simply isn’t. He is reading peacefully in the armchair beside the sofa, and it is a lovely afternoon, and he is not paying it any mind. He isn’t. He is reading each line carefully and thoughtfully, and he is not losing his place in the slightest, and-

He stands with a huff. The book falls to the floor; he has surely lost his page, but no matter, he will be able to find it again, just-

The humming noise has been drilling its way into Enjolras’s skull for the larger part of an hour, now--although in the spirit of precision, it’s more of a hum-and-thud-hum-thud-thud, noise, than just a humming noise. And he does not know from where it comes, and he simply cannot tolerate it any longer.

It is quite difficult to pin down, at first--for a moment, it seems to originate from the street below, but it proves to be nothing more than an echo, and- and no, it does not come from beneath the floorboards, nor from the bedrooms, but-

It is coming from the kitchen. Enjolras stalks closer, rounds the door frame--nothing looks amiss, but the sound is louder, and-

The sound is coming from a large, metal box, which sits low on the ground, beneath the countertop--almost like some strange cabinet, with a front hinge and a round, glass window, at the front, but through the window, Enjolras can see something, tumbling about around round walls, and he crouches down to look closer, and-

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras jolts to look at the doorway. Grantaire lingers, there, watching Enjolras with a sort of bemused curiosity that makes his cheeks flush. “Um,” he says, and he seeks a reasonable explanation for why he is on the kitchen floor, to no avail. “I-” He clears his throat. “It was making a noise.”

Grantaire crouches down beside him, watches the spinning behind the glass. “Okay. Um. I was gonna go to the grocery store and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.”

“Come with you?” He echoes. He hasn’t- he has yet to leave the apartment, barring that first blur of a night, and he doesn’t know if-

“Yeah, like-” Grantaire shrugs. “Little bit of real world experience. Accustomization, like. And you can pick out the kind of food you like to eat, you know, cause I don’t really- I don’t really know what you want, so-” He swallows, Enjolras can see it in his throat.

And what Enjolras wants- what he wants is to say  _ no _ , first off, to stay here in Grantaire’s apartment for as long as he can, for there may be things he does not understand within its walls but it is safe and he knows it and beyond it lays a world which he does not recognize, but-

But he is not a child. He cannot remain indoors indefinitely, and- and if Grantaire remains at his side, perhaps-

He nods. “Yes, that seems- Good. Yes. I shall go with you.”

“Okay, then.” Grantaire gets to his feet, holds out a hand.

Enjolras stares at it. Perhaps, Grantaire means to help him to his feet-- Enjolras cannot imagine another reason why he might do such a thing. He takes his hand--cautiously, for he is not certain that he has interpreted it correctly--and in the instant before he is pulled upright, Grantaire’s hand is warm and calloused and strong in his own.

“Cool,” says Grantaire, “You ready now?”

Enjolras looks himself over, subtly as he can manage. He is  _ not _ ready, so says his mind: he wears no waistcoat, no proper shirt; his trousers are those which Grantaire wears to lie about the apartment, not to go out; even the hoodie has proven too warm for the afternoon, and it is long abandoned on the back of the sofa; he hasn’t- “I haven’t a hat.”

Grantaire frowns. “Do you… need a hat?” 

What a strange thing to say. Enjolras wonders, momentarily, if that is a trick question. Of course one needs a hat to go out. 

Only-

Only, perhaps one does not. Grantaire does not seem to possess many hats. He does not remember the first night well, but he wracks his mind and he seems to remember Grantaire, hatless, on the street. “Do I not?” he hazards.

“No?” Grantaire is looking about himself. “Do you want a hat?”

“Do you have a hat?” He has yet to see one anywhere in the apartment. 

Grantaire hesitates. It does not seem as though he has a hat. 

“Never mind it,” says Enjolras, so that Grantaire does not go scrambling about the apartment in search of one. It’s rather thrilling, anyways, to go out with no hat. The modern man seems to do so quite often. Grantaire must always--it’s a bit of a thought.

“Oh.” Grantaire shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. “Good to go, then?”

And Enjolras nods, for he believes himself to be, and it is not until he has reached the door that-

“I haven’t any shoes.”

“What?”

“I haven’t-” He swallows. “I haven’t any shoes.” It is a falsehood, and it is not. What he has is one pair of laced, leather boots, well-made, and what the boots have is blood, dried and brown, on the soles and seeping in through the seams and matting at the laces, and if he touches them again he will vomit, he  _ will _ , and-

And he cannot-

He cannot-

(He can feel hot blood, soaking in the seams like rainwater, like gutter water, and the boy at his leg will not release him, and Enjolras cannot bear to kick him away but he cannot stay there, and there is nothing to be done for either of them, but there is blood at his feet, and-)

“Enjolras?”

He shakes his head, just to clear it. “Apologies,” he says. His voice shakes. “I haven’t-” He feels stuck, somehow--he grasps for different words but they do not come. “I haven’t any-” He swallows.

Grantaire has taken him by the shoulders and walks him back slowly, gently, carefully, until the backs of Enjolras’s knees hit a chair, and then he is urged to sit.

He sits.

“What’s your shoe size?” Grantaire asks, which-

Enjolras’s heart is already pounding, and perhaps that is why he does not understand what Grantaire is asking of him, but surely Grantaire cannot be implying that he is meant to know the measurements of his foot. “Um,” he says. “Average, I would guess? I have not seen horribly many feet against which I can compare.”

Grantaire curses under his breath. Enjolras still does not understand why. “Sorry, yeah, stupid to- Just- Just hang on.” And then he leaves, and Enjolras is left with his own pounding heart and the tightness in his chest and the rattling spray of grapeshot, and- “I know there’s shoes in here,” says Grantaire, and the tension breaks, a bit. He carries a transparent box, filled with clothes, in his arms. “My friends always leave shit here, they won’t mind if you borrow it. Hell, some of this stuff’s been in here for, like, two years, so I’m pretty sure they don’t even want it anymore, so. You can just. Have it, you know?” 

Enjolras does not know.

Grantaire sets out several pairs of shoes; Enjolras lines his foot up with them, one by one. The closest, he decides, is a curious pair of white shoes with laces down the front and a sole that is- that is  _ plastic _ , he reminds himself. He holds them up; Grantaire nods approvingly.

“Arch support, nice,” says Grantaire.

In all honesty, Enjolras does not understand a full half of the things that Grantaire says. He pulls one of the shoes on, ties the laces. If he wiggles his toes within, Grantaire needn’t know. 

They are a strange fit, and he is unused to his feet being so very far from the ground--particularly after nearly two weeks of wearing nothing but stockings--but it is not unpleasant, he notes as Grantaire ushers him out of the front door.

Grantaire presses a button on the wall. They wait.

“What are the shoes called?” Enjolras asks, for they are clearly waiting for  _ something _ , for the stairs are clearly visible and yet they remain in the hall.

“Hm?” asks Grantaire, and then, “Oh, sorry, yeah, um. Sneakers. They’re for running and walking and playing sports and shit.”

Now, Enjolras decides, would be a better time for him to have his notes-book than the days he spent sitting around the apartment. He voices this, absently, to Grantaire. Grantaire goes back inside the apartment and retrieves the notebook and the pen and hands them to Enjolras. 

A bell sounds. Enjolras turns towards it, to see that the grate at the end of the hall, once open to a chute, is now--not. Rather, it opens to a small room, more akin to a closet than anything else, and Grantaire ushes him into it, and-

And then it  _ moves _ , and heavens, he’d thought that he’d imagined this. The floors stream past, through the grate, and Enjolras has reached out to grasp tight to Grantaire’s arm before he can stop himself. “Oh, fuck,” he gasps. 

Grantaire looks to him with furrowed brow. “Did you just swear?” he asks, as though he hadn’t heard it with his own two ears.

“We are  _ moving _ ,” hisses Enjolras, “This room is sinking!”

“Oh.” Grantaire stamps at the floor, as if to- to  _ prove _ something. If anything, Enjolras is rendered  _ less _ confident with the whole situation; he does not wish to think about what may lay beneath the floor. “It’s an elevator. Nicer than stairs.”

“And yet we are not being elevated!” Honestly, honestly, this is many times worse than even the tallest flights of stairs. Truly, some things in the future seem to be worse. “Is this meant to occur?” He does not mean to plead, does not mean to keep his grip on Grantaire’s arm, but-

Grantaire frowns. “Well, it goes up, too.” He does not seem to pay much mind to the evident fucking hazard of their predicament, and so Enjolras expects him to shake his arm of Enjolras’s clinging fingers, but he simply manhandles him until-

Until their arms are linked at the elbows, as young lads are wont to do, as they wander about. Or, as lovers.

Enjolras wishes that he could scrape the thought from his mind, but it finds itself quite firmly attached. 

Grantaire simply beams at him. “You’re good,” he says. “I got you.”

Enjolras could shake him off, if he so desired. He- He is not a  _ child _ , he has muscle beneath his clothes and he has been endlessly cruel, before, and he will surely do so again, and if he so desired, he could break his grip and spit something bilious and sharp.

He does not desire, as such.

Rather, he keeps his elbow crooked into Grantaire’s, keeps his heart pounding in his chest.

The Elevator stops moving. Grantaire leads him out of the door, and then out of the building, and-

He is faced with blinding sunlight and noise that grates at his skull and cars that speed past, far too close, and something sticks in his throat. He has- He has seen this world from the window of Grantaire’s apartment, has perhaps even fooled himself into believing that he was accustomed to it, but it is much different on the ground. “Um,” he chokes out. “I- Perhaps I-” 

“I got you,” Grantaire says, again, and he pulls Enjolras a little closer. “It’s cool, the store’s pretty close. And we don’t have to- to stay, if you don’t want, I just thought-” he shrugs. “Are you okay?”

Enjolras considers that, as they stroll. “I-” He thinks on the feel of his feet in his shoes; of his arms, bare and exposed to the sun and the breeze and to the gazes of passers-by; of the  _ noise _ , the noise of it all. Of Grantaire’s arm, looped casually through his own. “Yes,” he says, and his heart is pounding, but it is not untrue. “I am fine.”

“Dope,” says Grantaire, which surely means…  _ something _ . 

They walk. Grantaire leads him around corners and out of the way of pedestrians and across streets. Enjolras allows himself to be led. 

“I haven’t any money to give you,” Enjolras reminds Grantaire, for Grantaire pulls him towards the glass doors of a building with far too much enthusiasm. “I would pay you back if I could do so, I swear it, but-”

Grantaire frowns. “I don’t want you to pay me back,” he says, as though the very idea is incredulous. Enjolras does not understand. “You’re a guest, man, don’t be stupid.”

It is… infuriating, at times, how Grantaire seems resolved to ignore a critical part of that equation. “I am not your guest.” Grantaire pulls him through the doors as he speaks. “Were I to be your guest, you would have had to invite me formally, and not simply take pity on a stranger you found on the street.” It’s a bit harsh, a bit cold, but Enjolras has never quite been able to help that, anyways.

Grantaire huffs. “Well, I’m inviting you  _ now _ .” He takes a metal basket from a stack as they pass.

“I do not believe that invitations work retroactively.”

“Well, maybe I want them to.” Grantaire leads him deeper into the building, rounds a corner, and-

It is hopelessly vast, with bright lights and white, shining floors that reflect them. The shelves are tall, and long, and stocked full of more food, more  _ colors _ , that Enjolras would even think possible. No wonder, he muses, all the food is so wonderful, now; if he had had this many choices, in his time, he would not have eaten under-salted bread, either. Only, he has a point to make. “Wanting something does not make it so. You are not the authority on guests.”

He groans, scrubs a hand over his face. “Fucking- Fine, you’re not my guest, then. You’re my friend who happens to be living at my house, for free, because you don’t have any money and I get that something really fucked up happened to you and I worry about you a lot, so no, you’re not allowed to pay for your own food.” It comes out in a rush, and-

Enjolras freezes still. Something sticks in his throat. 

Grantaire lets out a sigh. “Sorry.”

He draws in a shaky breath. “Do you truly mean that?” He asks, because he needs to, because- Because surely, Grantaire cannot have been serious. Surely, Grantaire cannot think of him as a  _ friend _ . Enjolras does not have friends.  _ Friends _ do not seem to attach themselves to him.

“What, that you’re not allowed to pay me back? Cause, yeah, man, that’s my whole point here, you-”

“You said that- that I am your friend.”

Grantaire stops walking. “What?”

“You said-” He clears his throat. There is something tight in his chest. “You said-”

Grantaire takes him by the arm, his grip firm and warm, and tugs him off to the side, to a corner. “Enjolras,” he says, and he sounds as though he, too, has a tightness behind his lungs. “‘Course you’re my fucking  _ friend _ .”

Oh.

Oh, he-

“You have not known me for very long,” Enjolras chokes out. He does not know why he is trying to dispute this. He does not know why, when he  _ wants _ it so very much.

“Two weeks.” Grantaire shrugs. “And you live with me, so. That helps.”

Enjolras swallows. “Oh,” he says. He- He does not quite know when he last had someone who he could call a friend. Compatriots, yes; comrades, but-

Perhaps he ought to be embarrassed, for the noise which he emits when Grantaire pulls him in to his chest and holds him tight. Perhaps he ought to be embarrassed, for the way in which he clings to the back of Grantaire’s shirt as though it were the downhaul of a blustering ship and he, a bedraggled sailor tossed to the waves.

He is not. Grantaire’s arms are strong and warm about his chest, and he presses his forehead to one broad shoulder and breathes.

After some time, Grantaire releases his hold with a pat to his shoulder. “Let’s buy something to eat,” he says, and Enjolras nods.

They walk back to the apartment with bags full of what is surely more food than they need. He had tried to protest, when Grantaire had prodded him to add to the basket, to try things on his money, and then-

(And then, Enjolras had seen the fresh fruit, on the shelves: stone fruit and raspberries and oranges and fruits that were not even in season, and Grantaire had elbowed him in the ribs until he reached out to pick up a large, fragrant peach, and then- well, and then two more, for later, and really, it had all been downhill from there.)

Grantaire had bought ingredients--meat and cream and spices and herbs and fresh, green vegetables--but mostly, he walked with Enjolras through the store and pointed out things that he thought he would like: bags of something called  _ chips _ ; perfect, chocolate-covered cookies that are sold in boxes; any type of cheese he preferred; fruit compote with spices; wine in perfect bottles--white and red and rosé.

Enjolras is rather glad that he does not understand the value of this new currency, for if he did, he would likely have been struck by apoplexy at the cost of it all.

As it is, Grantaire smiles at him and hefts the bag he holds up a little higher, and Enjolras smiles back. As they are- are  _ friends _ , after all.

Hm.

Enjolras is on the sofa, when Grantaire returns from work. He does not need to look up from his book, to know this, for Grantaire drops his bag down with a  _ thud _ and groans loudly even before slamming the door behind him. He expects this; Grantaire typically returns from work in such a manner. What he is not expecting is for Grantaire to call his name, from the entryway, rather than to join him on the sofa.

No matter--he stands, stretches, goes to meet Grantaire. “Good evening,” he says, for it is. He is glad to see Grantaire returned, as well, for he has questions to ask of him and he has missed him, throughout the day, and perhaps Grantaire will sit beside him on the sofa and tell him of his day.

“Hey, man.” Grantaire beckons him closer, opens the door, where it had been closed. “C’mere, yeah?”

Enjolras- He frowns, but does so, lingering close as Grantaire leans against the doorframe and eyes him up. “Yes?” His hand has taken to trembling; he shoves it into his pocket.

Grantaire is still  _ looking _ at him--Enjolras cannot help but to feel as though he has missed something rather pertinent. “You’re kind of starting to figure this whole…  _ thing _ out, now, aren’t you?” He says, at last, and Enjolras’s heart goes deathly, deathly cold.

Because-

Because  _ oh _ , he knows what is happening. “Yes,” he says, though he wishes to lie, instead.

Grantaire carries on, oblivious. “Like, I can tell you can handle yourself. Obviously, you don’t- you don’t know  _ everything _ , but you’re learning, and all.”

“Yes,” says Enjolras, and it comes out as a whisper, for-

For-

For he knew this was coming--that Grantaire would deem him ready enough, well enough, tiresome enough, and ask him, very politely, to leave. He knew this. And- And perhaps, were this to happen two weeks prior, his heart may have escaped quite unscathed, for he was never one for attachments, anyways, and Grantaire is simply a charitable soul who took him in out of fear that he would be injured further on the street, but-

But his heart fucking  _ wrenches _ , because- because he  _ likes _ Grantaire. He likes Grantaire, and he likes Combeferre and Joly and Bossuet and he likes this apartment and the warmth of it all and this was never his to keep, he knew that, and-

And perhaps if Grantaire had never pulled him aside, in the market, never embraced him and called him his  _ friend _ , perhaps then this would be easier. Perhaps it was cruel of him, to have called him that, to have given Enjolras that warmth in his chest, if he knew he would only strip it away--though, upon reminiscence, it was indeed Enjolras who had pushed, who had forced Grantaire to so define him, and perhaps this burden is therefore his, but it stings, nonetheless, for he is selfish and he knows this but he does not wish to leave.

If it were his decision, he would stay here forever. It is not his decision. It is not-

“Enjolras?” 

Enjolras jolts back to attention. Grantaire must have been speaking--he must not have noticed. He looks down.

Grantaire is holding out a key, shining and silver and with a tag, attached. 

This no longer makes sense. This no longer fits with what he had feared, expected, known. “What?”

“Your key,” says Grantaire. He is still holding it out. Enjolras still does not understand.

“What?” he asks again.

Grantaire keeps talking, but presses it into his hand. The metal is hot from the summer and from Grantaire’s palm. “The lock sticks, so I wanted to show you how to get in and out so you can go out and not give me a stress aneurysm.”

Enjolras stares down at the key in his hand. Because, surely this is not- this is not- “I do not understand,” he chokes out.

“It’s your key, man.” Grantaire claps him on the shoulder. “I got it made on the way back from work. Even got you a fucking keychain, but you can have a different one if you don’t like it.”

He does not know what a keychain is. He does not know why Grantaire is not- “You would not have me leave?” He hears himself ask, and he curses himself, for he does not mean to rush this, but-

“Well, yeah, if you want, and then come back, after. That’s kinda what the key is for. So you can open the door, and stuff.” As if it is simple. As if Enjolras deserves to stay.

Enjolras chokes back what feels suspiciously like a sob. His eyes are stinging. “Oh,” he says, and his voice breaks. “Thank you, Grantaire.” It is an understatement. He cannot bring himself to loosen his hold on the key; it digs into the meat of his palm.

Grantaire makes a noise in his throat. “Wait, you thought I was gonna kick you out?”

He tears his gaze from the key, looks up at Grantaire. He wishes that he was not quite so tearful, but that cannot be helped now. He shrugs, for he cannot manage words.

“Fuck,” Grantaire swears, sharp and sudden. “Fuck, you thought I was just gonna kick you out? Like, out on the fucking street?”

Enjolras rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I-” he swallows. “I haven’t anything to offer you, you needn’t-” a sob pulls itself from his throat. “I am a bit of a bother, I know that much, and you have- have done so much for me-”

“You’re not a fucking bother,” Grantaire spits out. “You’re- you’re-” He, oddly, is looking a bit teary-eyed, himself. “Christ, no, I’m not gonna kick you out, you live here, what the fuck? What-” And then he is grabbing Enjolras, pulling him into an embrace, and Enjolras collapses into it like a marionette with cut strings.

They stand there, for a time. Grantaire holds Enjolras closer than he has ever been held, his nose buried in his curls; Enjolras grasps at the back of his shirt and at the key and does his best to calm his shuddering breaths. 

After, Grantaire leads him over to the sofa and sits him down and leaves and then returns with tea and a blanket and sits down beside him. “Just-” He breaks off, fumbles for the device that seems to direct the movies. “Fuck, um. I don’t know, do you want to watch something about the ocean?” There is a desperate tinge to his voice; Enjolras does not know what to make of it at all.

“Okay,” he says, for he likes the ocean fine and does not feel as though he will be very concentrated, anyways.

“‘Kay.” Grantaire presses buttons until a movie about the ocean is playing, and then he spreads the blanket over both of their legs and wraps an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and holds him close.

They watch the movie.

The room darkens, as the sun dips down--Enjolras must have forgotten to turn the lights on, again.

Grantaire is warm, against him, and Enjolras is so tired, suddenly, and he finds he cannot help but slump further against his shoulder. 

Grantaire wishes him to stay.

Grantaire gave him a key to his apartment.

Grantaire said- He said that Enjolras  _ lives _ there.

He listens to the droning narrator and thinks about the circle that Grantaire’s thumb traces on his arm and lets his eyes fall shut. He shall not let himself fall asleep, he resolves. He shall not- He-

He sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i meant to get this chapter done sooner, but writing is hard and i've been unexpectedly quite busy as of late--i hope to get the next chapter written a little quicker! i have not forsaken u i am just tired :^)
> 
> anyways, this chapter made my little heart ache a little but it's iMPORTANT! 
> 
> *me, smushing enj and r together like a pair of polly pockets*: BOND.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras falls asleep on Grantaire’s shoulder halfway through the documentary, and Grantaire wants to fucking cry. His head is heavy on his shoulder; his curls hanging in front of his face and tickling Grantaire’s jaw; his hand clenched around the key Grantaire gave him like it’s a fucking lifeline, and he breathes soft and steady and nestles closer still when Grantaire holds him close, and he’d thought that Grantaire was going to send him away. He’d thought that Grantaire would just- just fucking kick him out, just like that, and-
> 
> And, okay, sure, maybe Grantaire wasn’t exactly planning on having him live with him forever, but he wasn’t thinking that Enjolras would leave, either.

Enjolras falls asleep on Grantaire’s shoulder halfway through the documentary, and Grantaire wants to fucking cry. His head is heavy on his shoulder; his curls hanging in front of his face and tickling Grantaire’s jaw; his hand clenched around the key Grantaire gave him like it’s a fucking lifeline, and he breathes soft and steady and nestles closer still when Grantaire holds him close, and he’d thought that Grantaire was going to send him away. He’d thought that Grantaire would just- just fucking kick him out, just like that, and-

And, okay, sure, maybe Grantaire wasn’t exactly  _ planning  _ on having him live with him  _ forever _ , but he wasn’t thinking that Enjolras would  _ leave,  _ either. He hadn’t exactly been thinking about anything, honestly, so sue him, But- But he doesn’t want Enjolras to leave, and he  _ really _ doesn’t want him to get that watery look in his eyes again, so-

Enjolras sighs, shifts against him. He is warm to the touch.

Grantaire turns the TV off, eases himself off of the couch, eases Enjolras off of his shoulder and down on the cushions. He does not stir. Perhaps Grantaire ought to wake him, so that he doesn’t wake up with a crick in his neck, but he  _ can’t. _ Instead, he pulls the blanket up to cover him and fetches a pillow to work under his head and takes the key from his hand and sets it down on the coffee table beside him. 

His heart is pounding, hammering away, and he doesn’t even know why. He wants to- to-

He scrubs a hand over his face, groans. Because fuck, honestly, he really needs to stop even  _ considering _ it. It shouldn’t fucking matter how sweet and how beautiful and how funny and how fucking  _ smart  _ Enjolras is, because he’s-

He’s so far off-limits it’s not even funny. Like, even aside from the whole  _ sweet and beautiful and funny and smart _ , thing, because Grantaire is  _ maybe _ one of those things, on a good day, and he’s not gonna kid himself into thinking that’s enough. But like. Regardless, even if it wasn’t so, Enjolras doesn’t have time to have some loser pining after him like a lost puppy, he’s trying to- to fucking recover from God knows what and he’s dealing with so much shit right now it’s not even funny and only a dickhead would try to instigate anything. Not that Grantaire’s trying. (Not that he doesn’t want to.) And, and God, all Grantaire’d gotten out of that one painfully awkward conversation over breakfast is the fact that Enjolras is too  _ impassioned with the love of his countrymen _ to date anyone, and fuck, he’s straight to boot, so-

So, yeah. Off-limits.

He swears under his breath and grabs his phone and goes out to the balcony.

Fuck. 

Fuck, because he can’t- he can’t-

He calls Combeferre. Not that he needs Combeferre’s permission, or anything, just-

Just-

Whatever. Ugh.

Combeferre picks up. “R?”

“I know I tend to, like, not think about shit a lot but,” he’s rambling, already, and he curses his dumb fucking mouth, “but I swear I’ve thought this through and I can’t- I can’t make him leave, Ferre, and I know it’s dumb but the money’s not a problem, you know that, and it’s nice to have someone around and he needs help, and- and he doesn’t have anybody, cause he’s from the 18 fucking 30s, and it’s  _ fine _ , I swear, I won’t even be weird about it, but I can’t-” he breaks off, forces himself to breathe. 

The silence on the other line is inscrutable, unbearable. “Okay,” says Combeferre, at last. “Um. Good?”

Good? “You don’t-” He clears his throat. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

Combeferre sighs. “Well, I mean, I wasn’t exactly gonna force you to take him in, or anything, but my spare room’s full of clutter I’d need to clear out, and the mattress sucks, and he’s already used to living with you, so it’s easier if he just stays at your place, I figure.”

And Grantaire, he’d been lying when he said he’d thought everything through, because he had assumed- he had assumed- “Oh,” he says, and he scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, yeah, right, that- that makes sense.” It makes sense that Combeferre wouldn’t have considered kicking Enjolras out at all, that is--God, maybe Grantaire’s just an asshole for thinking he had to, for considering it. 

“Okay,” says Combeferre, and Grantaire can hear his smile over the phone.

“Okay.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Grantaire watches the cars pass below the balcony. “So,” says Combeferre. “New roommate!”

“New roommate,” Grantaire repeats, and he is breathless, but he is smiling. 

“So you gotta like, buy him shit,” Combeferre reminds him. “I know you, R, and just because you’ve worn the same ratty sweatpants for years and just because he doesn’t know better doesn’t mean you don’t have to find him some fucking clothes.”

Grantaire casts a guilty look inside. Enjolras is wearing a shirt that Feuilly had gotten him for his birthday, and it’s soft and it stretches over his shoulder and exposes a freckle, there, and it looks just fine, in Grantaire’s opinion, but-

But. But it is seven years old. 

Shit. “Yeah.” A man on a bicycle runs into a parked car, then picks himself up and rides off. “What should I- What do 19th century people like to wear?” He can’t just take him to Monoprix, or something, but- but maybe, actually, if Enjolras is a social revolutionary, he wouldn’t want expensive clothes, anyways. Only, Monoprix is fast fashion, isn’t it, so maybe that’s worse, and it’s not like they have a good selection, anyways, so it would probably be a net waste, going there, and-

“Waistcoats, mostly.” Combeferre yawns. “You should ask Courf.”

Grantaire can’t- “I can’t ask Courf! He doesn’t know!”

“Courf knows,” says Combeferre, as though Grantaire is the crazy one. 

“What? How does Courf know?” 

“Well, I told him.” Like it’s obvious. It is, kind of, but Combeferre definitely should have told Grantaire, first. “Only, he said he already knew, at the time, because Joly told him first.”

Grantaire groans. “Does everybody know?”

“Probably not  _ everybody _ ,” says Combeferre, the fucking gossip. “Jehan says they’re coming over at some point, though.”

Christ. “How does Jehan even know?”

“I assume Courf told them.” Like that, too, is obvious--and maybe it is.

Whatever. Grantaire’s missed Jehan, anyways, and they’re no snitch. “They’re not allowed to be on clothing duty,” he says, because it’s easier than acquiescing completely.

Combeferre just laughs, which Grantaire finds rather ominous, all things considered. “Where is Enjolras, anyways?”

“Fell asleep on the couch,” Grantaire mumbles, because that’s better than saying that he fell asleep on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Figured he just needed the rest.”

“Mm. Think I might stop by while you’re at work, tomorrow.”

Fuck, Grantaire figures, at least Combeferre and Enjolras seem to like each other. Especially given the way Grantaire’s heart tends to wrench at every third thing Enjolras says. “Bring some fruit by?”

“I’m bringing him his own fucking socks.” Grantaire supposes that that’s fair enough. “But yeah, sure, I’ll grab something on the way. See you after work?”

Grantaire nods, and then realizes that he’s speaking over the phone. “Yeah. See you.”

Someone on the street below bends to inspect the dent left in the car by the biker and swears loud enough for Grantaire to hear. Enjolras, on the couch, sleeps on.

Three days later, Grantaire gets home from work to find a fanny pack slung over the back of a chair and a box from Florence Kahn on the coffee table, which means, without a doubt, that Jehan has come by. He sets his bag down softly; he can’t see them, or Enjolras, for that matter, but there is muffled… is that arguing? Muffled arguing, coming from Enjolras’s bedroom, and there’s something tight in his chest, because-

Because, okay, Jehan’s not the  _ arguing _ type, anyway, and for all that Grantaire knows that Enjolras has played his parts in rebellions and skirmishes and the like, he doesn’t really- he doesn’t really argue, either, and Grantaire can’t quite imagine what the two of them might be fighting about, aside from- from-

And, oh, shit, because for all that Grantaire loves Enjolras--he is from a different century, isn’t he, and Jehan is many things, but  _ conventional _ isn’t one of them, and if they’re fighting over that, Grantaire doesn’t know what he’ll do, because obviously, he’ll side with Jehan, but Enjolras will have to accept modern things eventually, and he approaches the door, just to peek inside, to understand what’s happening, and-

“I simply do not understand from where you have gotten this ridiculous idea.” Enjolras stands in front of the mirror, twisting to try and catch the back of a tee shirt with a particularly obscene slogan scrawled across it. His hair is tied back into a fluffy ponytail with a scrunchie that Grantaire recognizes distinctly as belonging to Jehan. (Grantaire realizes, with a start, that while he has never seen Enjolras with his hair up, he has seen him absently blowing hair out of his eyes more times than he can count, which- Maybe this is another one of those things Combeferre had mentioned, one of those  _ buy things for your roommate _ things that Grantaire should have been doing. But, fuck, he’s  _ trying, _ alright?) “I have never set foot in Isère in my life. How should anyone know where I was born?”

Grantaire has to pause, just out of sight, at that.

Jehan lies diagonally on the bed, phone in hand. “Well, I don’t know where they got the idea,” they say, and Enjolras huffs. “All I’m saying is, that’s what’s on Wikipedia. That you’re from Isère. I didn’t put it there.”

Enjolras turns to face them. “But I am  _ not _ . I care not what your Wiki Encyclopaedia says. You must tell them to change it immediately.”

They roll over onto their back, so that their head lolls off the mattress as they look at Enjolras. “I can’t just change it without any sources and say you’re from Drôme. They’d take my  _ Experienced Editor _ status away, and do you know how hard I’ve worked for that?”

“I am your source! I am the most reliable source the Encyclopaedia could ever hope for!” Enjolras sits down heavily at the desk. “I am destined to exist only in falsehood, it seems.”

It seems a good time for Grantaire to clear his throat and knock at the door frame. 

Jehan gasps. “Gran _ taire! _ ” They scramble to their feet. And they’re smiling, but they cross their arms and say, “R, honestly, I’m really mad at you.”

“You- You are?”

“I haven’t seen you in, like, a  _ month _ .” To be fair, it has been a long time--Grantaire hasn’t done much of anything, lately, save for, like, showing somebody the workings of the modern world. He shrugs, sheepish. Jehan continues. “And I’ve missed you, but I understand, but what I don’t understand is how I can hear from plenty of sources--secondhand, mind--that you’ve got a new roommate from the June Revolution, but that  _ none _ of you thought to tell me that it’s  _ Enjolras _ .”

Grantaire frowns. Of course it’s Enjolras. “Course it’s Enjolras.”

“Enjolras the  _ political philosopher _ . Who wrote the essays on liberty and governmental accountability and purpose, and stuff, are you serious?”

At the desk, Enjolras flushes high in his cheeks.

He shrugs. Because, yes, Enjolras’s writings are wonderful and poignant and smart and scarily verbose, but also, like… he’s the guy that keeps books in his hoodie pocket and has a weakness for fresh fruit, so. “I mean. Yeah?”

Enjolras makes a strange, choked noise. “Apologies,” he manages, when Grantaire looks over. “But-” He hesitates.

Grantaire waits.

“But- You have read them? My essays?” His cheeks have blushed pinker still.

Maybe Grantaire shouldn’t have said anything. “Yeah, like. That’s kind of how we knew who you were, me and Ferre. I found them online and figured I probably should know, like… what your deal is?” He winces. Of all the ways he could have phrased that, that was probably not the most ideal.

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes. He is fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Well, you must- you must know that I wrote them when I was quite young, and I have since been made aware of both several logical fallacies throughout and a rather heinous spelling error in the second essay, which I would- I would hope that you would overlook, for it is certainly too late for any revisions to be made now.” 

Grantaire, in all honesty, noticed neither the spelling error or any  _ fallacies _ . He was mostly caught up in the whole  _ revolutionary in my spare bedroom  _ thing, at the time. “‘S cool.” And then, because Enjolras is looking up at him with such- such caution, and such hesitancy, “I liked them. Thought they were good.” Understatement of the fucking year.

“Oh,” he says, again. “Well, um. Good. Thank you.” He looks profoundly uncomfortable; Grantaire hopes he hasn’t done anything to offend him, or anything. He feels like he does that a lot. 

He changes the subject. “Anyways! Jehan, what are you doing here?”

They sit down on the bed, cross-legged. After a moment’s hesitation, Grantaire copies them, does the same. “I,” they say, primly, “am collecting important historical evidence. When’s the last time anyone had a genuine, first-person source from the Romantic era that they could  _ ask anything _ ? Enjolras wasn’t even born in Isère! Delacroix’s dick didn’t work! This is an incredible opportunity!” They take a moment to breathe. “Also,” they continue sheepishly, “Courfeyrac mentioned that Combeferre told  _ him _ that Enjolras didn’t have any of his own clothes, so I thought I’d swing by with hand-me-downs.”

“So you gave him a shirt that says  _ Fuck The Police _ ?”

They shrug.

Enjolras clears his throat. “I’m rather surprised that one is allowed to go out in public wearing such a profane article. Society truly has made enormous progress. I’m somewhat proud.”

“Also, I wanted to meet your new roomie,” they admit. 

To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras smiles, a little. “It is good to make new acquaintances,” he says, softly. “We have spoken on philosophy. I was not aware of the developments that have been made since my time, but it seems that they are numerous and significant.”

Grantaire’s heart warms, a little. It also aches, a bit, because- because, okay, he’s not a fucking philosophy major like Jehan, but he knows stuff too! He could probably talk about philosophy, if that’s what Enjolras wanted. He might have to brush up on some readings, but he  _ could _ . 

Jehan flops back onto the quilt. Grantaire is beginning to suspect that they’re high, although he can’t quite be sure. “Told him about Marx, and everything,” they say, perhaps a bit too proud of themself. “Can you get the bag from the kitchen? I bought us sandwiches.”

He grumbles, but he kind of wants a sandwich, so he goes. Only, what he  _ really  _ wants is to get out of his work clothes and take a quick shower, so he does, because it’s his apartment and Jehan doesn’t live there, anymore, and they can’t tell him what to do. But he does shower quickly, and he throws on whatever clothes he can find, and he grabs a few beers from the fridge, on his way, and-

“-hope I don’t make you uncomfortable,” Jehan is saying, muffled, through the door. “But- But there are...  _ rumors _ , you know?”

“Rumors?” Enjolras’s voice comes out clear, strong despite its low volume and the wood of the door. Grantaire likes the way he speaks.

There is a pause. “It’s a little debated, but some historians think that you liked- that you  _ like _ , sorry-” Another pause. “Some people think you like men. Like, romantically.”

Grantaire winces. Christ, he loves Jehan, but that is  _ so _ not something any of them should be asking, right now. He doesn’t even know if Enjolras is  _ okay _ with gay people, if he knows that people  _ can  _ be gay, and the last thing he needs is- 

“Oh. Yes.”

What.

What?

“What?” The bed creaks; Jehan sitting up, probably.

“Yes, I fancied men.” Oh, Christ, but he can’t mean what Grantaire thinks he’s saying, he must have misinterpreted Jehan’s question, he must be confused, he- “I spoke with Combeferre, and he said that I am- gay? If that is the correct word?”

Grantaire drops one of the beer bottles he’s holding; it doesn’t shatter, but it hits the ground with a blatant  _ thud _ and he doesn’t look forward to opening it. “Sorry!” he calls, and he wills his breathing to stay steady. But-

But, oh, Christ.

Christ. 

Well, he supposes, that’s one concern out of the way. He hardly has to worry about Enjolras finding out  _ he’s  _ gay if, well. If everyone’s gay. 

“You good?” Jehan calls. 

He swallows. “Yep! Dropped a beer!” Fuck, fuck, fuck. He steels himself, opens the door. Enjolras sits on the bed, flipping through a book that Grantaire recognizes as one of Jehan’s; he looks up when he enters. Grantaire, for a moment, is caught in his gaze--he clears his throat and shakes the paper bag to buy himself some time. “So! Jehan! What’cha get us?”

They do not look from where they’re digging through a bag of--clothes and books, maybe? Scrunchies? Snacks? Whatever Jehan deems  _ essential  _ for political revolutionaries from the 1830s, apparently. “You have both hands and eyes,” they remind him.

Enjolras, surprisingly, snorts a stifled laugh. Grantaire cannot help but to look. “I- I apologize,” he says, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. “Only. Only, you do.”

Christ, Grantaire should have known that Jehan would bring something charming and troublesome out of Enjolras. Maybe their Romantic influences are, like, familiar, or something. He huffs, sits down at the desk to peer into the bag--three sandwiches, which are, when he checks, all pastrami; a tub of taramasalata; a few pastries; and, because Grantaire knows that Jehan really does love him, a half-loaf of challah, to boot. “Bread’s for me?” He asks, to check.

They shrug. “Payment for roommate time.” Whatever that means.

Grantaire tosses a sandwich to Jehan and hands one to Enjolras, and considers giving Jehan the beer he’d dropped, but decides against it and keeps it for himself, because- because he  _ had _ missed them, and maybe giving someone a beer that’s going to explode all over their shirt isn’t the best way to show that. 

They eat. 

“This is very good,” says Enjolras, once his mouth is no longer full. 

Grantaire leans back against the desk. “Not the best food you’ve ever eaten?” (He tries not to be disappointed; surely, not  _ every  _ food Enjolras tries can be his favorite, there’s like, a problem with infinite gains, there.) 

Enjolras thinks on that. “Well.” He takes another bite--maybe just to check. “It is very, very good. But it is also just a sandwich, if you will understand. I have had sandwiches before. Perhaps this is the best sandwich I have ever had,” he offers.

Jehan makes a curious sound. “Whshrlrbm,” they say, because their mouth is full of pastrami and rye. Enjolras gives them a bewildered look and waits for them to swallow. Grantaire does the same. “I said, what’s your favorite food, then?”

Enjolras just reaches for his journal, flips through until he finds the right page. Leave it to him to have a scientific rating system. “I believe-” He squints at the page. Grantaire wonders if he needs reading glasses, or something. “In all honesty, I’m still rather partial to that beef stew you made.”

Grantaire’s not ashamed to admit to the warm, fuzzy feeling that rises in his chest. “I can- I can make that again, soon, if you want.” He also thinks he’s gonna have to find a way to get a closer look at that page. Not that he wants to structure all of his meals around Enjolras’s preferences, or anything, just. You know.

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes. “Thank you, Grantaire.”

The look that Jehan is giving him is far too knowing, for Grantaire’s taste. Sometimes, he hates that they know everything. “You know,” they say, around their sandwich. “This totally solves one of the great mysteries of the romantic era.”

Enjolras makes a curious noise. “The stew?”

Grantaire finds himself looking at the chair in the corner of the room, unoccupied but for Enjolras’s old clothes, grimy and blood stained and torn but- but still  _ there _ , and he might be wrong, on this, but he’s pretty sure that they haven’t been moved since Enjolras took them off, that first night. Maybe he should offer to wash them, or something. Can you wash waistcoats? Grantaire’s not sure. 

“Your  _ disappearance _ .” Jehan sets the sandwich down on their knee.

Enjolras frowns. “I have not disappeared, I think you’ll find.”

“Well, I know that  _ now _ . But you totally disappeared. Some people think you escaped to lead a life of piracy. Or that you were a ghost.”

Grantaire grumbles, a little. “Almost nobody believes that.” Enjolras is looking at him curiously. He continues. “Most people just think you left the country and became a farmer or something in England.”

There is a gasp. Grantaire realizes, somewhat belatedly, that it must have come from Enjolras. “That’s ridiculous. And it is slander, as well.”

“And the pirates aren’t?”

He straightens his posture, clears his throat. “I willingly surrendered my life for the possibility of a free France, one without a king. Why on  _ Earth  _ would I escape, only to be ruled by yet another monarch? There is no merit to that at all.”

“To be fair,” Grantaire says, and he doesn’t know why he’s arguing about this, anyways, “It’s not like they could have known what happened. Seeing as, you know. It hadn’t happened yet.”

Enjolras huffs. “They might have imagined that I’d gone to a country with a more functional government.”

And, well, Grantaire supposes he can’t argue with that. 

When Jehan leaves, they do so with a flourish and a kiss to both Grantaire and Enjolras’s cheeks, which, somewhat surprisingly, Enjolras does not even start at. Maybe that was just more common, in his time. Maybe-

“I quite like Jehan,” Enjolras muses, once the door has shut. “They know much about philosophy and hold very little trust in the National Guard.”

Grantaire can’t tear his eyes from the way the few wisps of hair that have fallen from his ponytail curl at the nape of his neck. “All good qualities,” he hears himself say.

“Indeed.” Enjolras is watching him, now. “How was your day of work?”

“Fine.” It was pretty painfully boring, actually, which isn’t what Grantaire is used to. It’s strange, really; before Enjolras came along, he was quite fucking content to do the same shit every day. Now, he just kind of waits until he can go back home and try to explain electricity or some shit to him. “Somebody pissed on the floor,” he says, because at least that’s not a confession in any form. “They almost made me clean it up but I threatened to quit.”

Enjolras nods slowly. “Ah.”

Grantaire flounders. God, Enjolras probably doesn’t want to think about floor-piss. Nobody wants to think about floor-piss. “Um. Do you want to watch a movie, or something?”

“Yes,” he says, “Okay.” The word is still a little awkward, in his mouth, but he also tends to smile, a little, and look to Grantaire when he says it, and Grantaire hopes he never stops. “What movies are there?”

He frowns. “Like… in general? Or on Netflix?”

Enjolras frowns, too, but in the serious little way that makes Grantaire think he’s about five seconds from whipping out his notebook again. “How many are there? What are they about?”

And-

Grantaire supposes that he must forget, sometimes, just how new some things are, to Enjolras. It’s hard to remember--Enjolras is learning, recovering, in stops and starts; he has one good day, wherein he laughs softly with Combeferre and drinks rosé and eats strawberries, and then the next day he spends in his room and strung so tightly Grantaire figures he must ache; he speaks of liberty and history with a quiet passion that rings somewhere deep in Grantaire’s chest, and then he does not talk at all; he wears Jehan’s old shirts that say  _ fuck the police _ and he eats pastrami on rye and he argues with them about wikipedia, and he doesn’t know about movies, not really. (It’s a process, Grantaire tells himself, and it comes out in Combeferre’s voice--these things take a lot of time.) 

He breathes. “There’s movies on everything. You wouldn’t even believe how many movies there are. Anything you want, there’s a movie on it. There’s movies based on books by de Balzac. There’s movies about… Fuck, literally, anything.”

There is a certain… wideness, a certain wonder to Enjolras’s eyes that Grantaire vows to remember for a really, really long time. “Perhaps- Perhaps we could simply watch a movie of your choosing? For tonight? And I shall select one once I- once I am made more aware of the possibilities.”

And, yeah, Grantaire can do that. He can grab some ice cream from the freezer and the Jurassic Park DVD from the cupboard and sit down beside Enjolras on the sofa. That’s easy as anything. Keeping his breathing steady when Enjolras leans closer, rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, is a little harder, but it’s not exactly a burden, either. 

(Enjolras has been lingering a little closer, ever since Grantaire gave him the key. Mostly, just when they watch movies together, which may have had more to do with Grantaire holding him close, after, than it does to the key itself, but that’s enough, that’s more than enough and not enough, too. But he’s been a little closer, outside, of that, too. He lets Grantaire pass around him in the narrow space of the kitchen, without jolting. He still has a tendency to grab tight to Grantaire’s forearm in the elevator, when there’s something new, when anybody’s a little too loud. Grantaire tries not to read too much into it.)

He plays the movie. He knows, by now, what he needs to explain, voice low, under the sound--what the Ground Penetrating Radar device is, and why it looks so different from the technology that Enjolras has seen; what a helicopter is, and why it makes so much wind; what a theme park is. 

Enjolras eats his ice cream slowly and stares at the screen with furrowed brow. Grantaire waits, for a while--Enjolras generally tends to figure stuff out, anyways, but his frown just grows deeper, with time, and-

Grantaire pauses the movie. “Enj?”

His mouth works around silent words. “Wh-” He hazards a glance over at Grantaire. “I am confused.”

Grantaire sets his bowl down on the coffee table. “‘Sup?”

“Are there-” his fingers twist the hem of his shirt, but it’s less frantic, more mindless. “It seems foolish to ask, really, but- The bones beneath the ground, is that a work of fiction, or- I apologize, but I cannot quite work out-”

Sometimes, Grantaire has realized, it is better to wait, to wait until Enjolras has gathered his thoughts and put them to word.

“The beasts,” Enjolras says, at last. “The- Danosores?” He looks to Grantaire for verification.

“Dinosaurs,” Grantaire corrects.

“Are they a work of fiction, as well? Surely, they cannot- they cannot-”

Oh. Oh, shit. “Dinosaurs were real,” he says, slowly. “They lived, like, a super long time ago, and they all died off way before written history, but they’re real.”

Enjolras stares at him. 

“Did you guys… not know about dinosaurs?” he hazards. Fuck, maybe he should have done some more research. (Maybe he’s so far from the most qualified person for this job it’s pathetic.)

He shakes his head mutely.

Huh. 

“Yeah, they like. Evolved into birds, or something. You should ask Ferre, when you see him, he took biology and shit.”

He seems to think on that. And then- “You say- They evolved?”

And- And  _ oh,  _ that is a whole can of worms that Grantaire has no desire to get into, right now. Fuck, he doesn’t know all that much about evolution, either. “Um. Yeah. So, like. We kind of came from monkeys, if that makes sense?”

The look on Enjolras’s face indicates that no, actually, that does not make sense.

“Fuck. Listen, I went to art school, I don’t really- You should really ask Ferre, he’ll know how to explain it, but. But dinosaurs turned into birds.”

That, quite unsurprisingly, does nothing to smooth the furrow in Enjolras’s brow, but he nods slowly. “O-kay.”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. He’s just- He’s not very good at any of this. He doesn’t know when dinosaurs were discovered or how evolution works or anything, and just because  _ he  _ likes having Enjolras stay with him doesn’t mean Enjolras wouldn’t be better staying with Combeferre or, fuck, Jehan, even, instead, and Enjolras  _ likes _ Combeferre, so Grantaire doesn’t know why he’s being so selfish, but- “We can watch a different movie. If you want. We-”

“No!” It’s sudden enough to stop Grantaire in his tracks. Enjolras’s eyes are wide and bright. He clears his throat. “Um, I just. I would prefer to watch this one. If you do not mind explaining some things to me. I find myself rather invested.”

And-

Alright, then. “Cool.” He swallows. “Yeah, cool.”

He plays the movie. And if he feels a little, shamefully better when Enjolras clings tight to his arm and lays his head on his shoulder, well, that’s his business.

Combeferre comes over and brings Courfeyrac, because Courf had been away in Morocco and he’d missed Grantaire and Grantaire had missed him, too. They eat lunch, and Courfeyrac prods at Enjolras and asks questions that Grantaire wouldn't and Grantaire wants to tell him to quit it, to be fucking polite, but Enjolras just quirks that small smile of his and takes to Courfeyrac, fast and sure. 

It’s strange, really; Grantaire adores Courfeyrac, but he’s just…  _ loud _ . And, fuck, Grantaire’s not all that subtle, either, but- but Enjolras is, and he’d expected-

He’s not quite sure what he’d expected, really, from the two of them meeting. Maybe Enjolras lingering a little closer to Grantaire than normal, with a look in his eye like that of a startled, wild horse and a hand gripping tight to Grantaire’s forearm. Maybe the reemergence of that withering glare that poor Joly had been subject to, before he’d learned his lesson. But surely not-

Surely not Enjolras, listening intently to Courfeyrac’s rambling story about his roommate and some girl he keeps seeing in the park, leaning forward over the table and making tentative jokes in return, just soft enough for Grantaire to hear. Surely not Enjolras unrepentantly evading questions about romance, about…  _ intimacy _ , about scandals and mishaps, but never snapping back, never doing anything to remove himself from the situation. (Grantaire doesn’t listen in, he  _ doesn’t. _ )

And so, yeah. Yeah, it goes well enough. Combeferre tells Grantaire about his early morning shift at the hospital and Grantaire tries not to notice the way Enjolras’s ankle bumps up against his, under the table, and then Courfeyrac’s phone rings.

“Sorry, ‘s my grandma,” Courfeyrac says, and he looks down at the phone regretfully until Enjolras nods, waves him off. He answers, and Enjolras turns to Grantaire and begins a question of some sort, and then-

And then, Enjolras just sort of  _ freezes _ .

Courfeyrac continues his call, oblivious, explaining…  _ something _ , very carefully in Occitan. Grantaire’s not sure, but he thinks it has something to do with computers. And Enjolras  _ stares _ , frozen.

He hangs up with a sigh, eventually, and sets his phone down, and begins to apologize, and-

“You speak- That is very like Provençal,” Enjolras says, low and rushed and urgent.

Courfeyrac shrugs, and Grantaire wants to kick him, because he may not know  _ why  _ this is important, why it matters, but it so clearly does. He holds off. “My grandma couldn’t get her email to work, again. She doesn’t like French.”

And-

And Enjolras says something, then, and it’s not in French and it sounds a little different from Courf’s secondhand Occitan but it’s close enough that Grantaire can’t understand.

Courfeyrac grins, says something back, and then-

The two of them are leaning over the table, talking fast and low, the conversation switching hands so quickly Grantaire can hardly track it, and he doesn’t even think he’s ever heard Enjolras talk this much, and-

He’s  _ jealous _ .

He wants to kick himself, honestly, because this is  _ good _ . This is Enjolras and Courfeyrac getting along; this is Enjolras coming out of his shell a little more; this is Courfeyrac surely getting information that Enjolras would never tell Grantaire and providing something that Grantaire cannot possibly provide, and-

He steels his expression, urges himself to turn to Combeferre and talk about something stupid and pointless and smile a little and try to pick out words he understands from the conversation across the way.

Honestly, he’s a piece of shit. This is a good thing, it _is,_ it’s just…

It’s just a little hard to make himself feel that way. Whatever, he’s a selfish piece of shit. Old news.

He hazards a glance back over to Enjolras, then, and he tension in his throat eases, a little, because the smile on his face is a little awkward and a little crooked but it creases the corners of his eyes and, well, it’s just hard to feel resentful about anything to do with that.

When they’ve all finished eating, Enjolras and Courfeyrac make their way to the balcony and Grantaire stays behind and washes dishes with Combeferre.

“I didn’t know Enjolras spoke Occitan.” Combeferre is drying a plate, when he says it, going over it with the dish towel for just a moment too long for it to be unplanned. The question is evident; Grantaire wishes he could ignore it.

“Yeah.” He scrubs particularly hard at a bit of sauce, stuck to the bottom of the pot. “Yeah, I mean. I didn’t either, he never said.” There’s a lot of things that Enjolras has never mentioned, actually, stuff that Grantaire only knows from fucking Wikipedia or doesn’t know at all, and he aches, because he doesn’t- he doesn’t really know a lot about him, doesn’t know where he grew up or what he liked to study at school or where he used to sneak off to as a kid, and the longer he knows him for, the more he can’t help but to feel that he doesn’t really know him at all.

Grantaire’s not very good at not knowing people. The ability to be close-but-not-too-close would be a real fucking help, right about now.

Combeferre sets the plate down. “It’s fine, you know. That you didn’t know.”

He groans. “I should’ve. I’m fucking bad at this, Ferre.”

“Last I checked, he’s still alive, so you’re probably doing okay,” Combeferre says, but he doesn’t  _ get  _ it.

Grantaire draws in a deep breath, because- “Well, last  _ I  _ checked, I don’t know how evolution works and I don’t know that much about philosophy and I can’t speak Occitan and I don’t even know that much about history, and I work as a fucking security guard, in a fucking museum, and he’s a fucking- a fucking published political revolutionary, and all noble and shit, and I know your spare bedroom’s basically turned into document storage but I’m pretty sure I’m, like, the literal worst person for any of this and-”

“Grantaire!” Combeferre snaps, and it’s so sudden, so unexpected, that he stops. He looks serious, really serious, and Grantaire hasn’t been subject to that particular expression for a long time. “Regardless of the fact that I’m pretty sure he thinks you’re wonderful,” and Grantaire wants to butt in, wants to argue, with that, because that can’t be true, not really, but Combeferre pushes on. “Regardless of that, Enjolras trusts you, and he’s used to you, and he’s not used to a lot right now and he is in the middle of dealing with trauma and stuff that I’m pretty sure I never even learned about in med school, and I love you, but he’s my friend, too, and if you let him think that you don’t want him around just because you don’t feel like you’re good enough, I will be fucking furious.”

Oh.

And that’s-

He swallows. “I wouldn’t-” he tries weakly.

Combeferre cuts him off. “You would,” he says, and it’s true. “So  _ don’t _ .”

“Yeah.” Grantaire stares down at the soapy water in the sink. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Combeferre  _ tsks _ and sets his dish towel down and wraps Grantaire up into a hug. “You’re doing fine,” he says. Grantaire presses his forehead to Combeferre’s shoulder. “He likes staying with you. You think I wouldn’t have asked?” 

Grantaire shrugs.

“He told me that he finds you  _ bold and kind _ , and that he likes when you  _ summon Thai food _ and let him eat it on the couch. And he blushed when he called you his friend. You’re doing fine.”

“Oh.”

Combeferre gives him a pat on the back, and then lets go to keep washing the dishes. 

A week later, Grantaire is sitting on the couch beside Enjolras, scrolling through twitter, when Courfeyrac texts him. 

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Courf says he’s throwing you a housewarming party.”

Enjolras sets his book (Jehan’s book) down. “Pardon, a what?”

“Housewarming party. He’s big on them. You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to, no matter how much he begs.” And God knows he will beg--the last time Feuilly moved apartments and tried not to make a fuss about it, Courf threatened him with more and more expensive blenders until he relented. 

“Hm,” says Enjolras, but he looks… confused, maybe. “And- And what does one do, at a housewarming party?”

_ Cultural differences,  _ Grantaire reminds himself,  _ cultural differences _ . “It’s like. Since you live here, now, it’s like a welcome party. ‘Cause you’re living in a new place and you don’t have a ton of stuff yet. So people bring gifts, and stuff, and you can meet the rest of my friends. And we all get drunk.”

“Ah.” Enjolras fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “But they wish- They wish to hold such an event for me? They’ve not known me very long, and some of them I clearly have not met at all, they certainly needn’t bring  _ gifts _ , I-” He hesitates, a crease between his brows. 

Grantaire doesn’t hug him, because that would be inappropriate, but he lets himself nudge his knee up against Enjolras’s. “They get everyone gifts. Honestly, good luck trying to convince them not to.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “And- And Combeferre will be there?”

“‘Course,” Grantaire says, and he reminds himself to tell Combeferre that if he doesn’t come he’s going to hell.

“And you, as well?”

“Me what?” He asks, because he is very intelligent.

“Will you be there, as well? At the party?”

And- 

Oh. “Yeah, man,” Grantaire says, and he’s smiling. “‘S my apartment, too, anyways. I’ll be there.”

A bit of the lingering tension eases from Enjolras’s shoulders. “Good. Then I do not mind. So long as you inform them that there is truly no need for gifts.”

“Won’t work,” Grantaire reminds him, as he texts Courfeyrac back.

Enjolras huffs. “It would do to tell them so, nevertheless.”

“Won’t work. Pretty sure Courf’s already bought something.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. And then, after such a long pause that Grantaire had been nearly sure that the conversation had ended, “This is very kind of him. Of all of you.” There is a tremor to his voice that wasn’t there, before. “I confess, I am quite unused to- to-” He shrugs. “I have not often had much time for such kindness.”

And fuck it, because Grantaire  _ can’t _ not hug him, not after hearing something like that, so he wraps an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders and pulls him in close. “Better get used to it,” he says, because it’s easier than shutting up. “Courf’s pretty relentless on that whole  _ kindness _ front.”

Enjolras goes lax against him. “So it seems.”

Enjolras goes to the grocery store with him, the day of the party, and he swears in the elevator, again, and Grantaire slips his arm into the crook of Enjolras’s elbow, again, and he doesn’t tense up quite as much as he had, that first time. He also doesn’t seem to mind going out without a hat, although, to be fair, Grantaire goes out without a hat on pretty much all the time, and he does just fine, so. 

Anyways.

“So,” Enjolras says, as they walk. “Combeferre shall be there?”

Grantaire watches the way Enjolras watches a couple pass by. “Yep.”

“Will Jehan?” He brushes the hair out of his eyes with his free hand. Grantaire wonders where that scrunchie Jehan lent him ended up.

“Yeah, they’re coming.” They round the corner.

“I assume Courfeyrac will be in attendance, seeing as it is his affair.” He looks to Grantaire for confirmation. Grantaire nods. “Joly and Bossuet?”

“Yeah, they’re bringing Musichetta.”

Enjolras doesn’t frown, but there is a furrow to his brow. “Musichetta?”

Shit. Maybe Grantaire shouldn’t- shouldn’t say anything, should let the three of them broach the subject, but Enjolras has been cool about everything else, so far, and- “Joly and Bossuet are together,” he explains. “They’re also both dating Musichetta.”

The furrow lingers on Enjolras’s brow for a few tense seconds, then disappears. “Ah, you mean to say that they are all three courting one another. I was not aware that you did such things, anymore.”

And-

Wait.

“Anymore?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Well, it was not exactly a done thing in  _ public _ , but amongst friends, it was hardly  _ very  _ peculiar.”

Oh.

Well, that’s one thing out of the way.

When they get to the store, Grantaire buys the ingredients for the dumplings and rambles on about something that happened at work, the day before, and Enjolras trails after him and reads packages and prods at things on the shelves. “You can buy whatever you want,” Grantaire reminds him, and Enjolras only hesitates for a minute before he, very deliberately, places a bag of cherries in the cart. 

Grantaire waits.

Enjolras gives in and adds a few peaches, and then, when Grantaire doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, slips a few more into the bag. He’s not quite looking at Grantaire, but Grantaire thinks that he might be smiling.

Good.

Grantaire may not know political theory, but he can persuade Enjolras into letting him pay for as much fruit as he could ever want, so that’s gotta be something. 

“What else do we need to purchase?” Enjolras asks, running his fingertips along the fronds of a pineapple. (Grantaire puts it in the cart as soon as Enjolras isn’t looking.)

He checks his list. “Snacks, drinks, and whatever else you want. Not dessert, Ferre’s bringing cake.”

Enjolras frowns. “There is to be a cake?”

Shit, maybe Grantaire should have asked, first. “Do you not like cake? There’s still time, I’m sure he could pick something else up, instead. ‘S your decision. Your party, after all.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and he’s stopped walking and he’s just kind of looking at the ground, now. “No, I like it quite well, I simply- I do not believe that I remember when I last had cake, and certainly not the last time there was one in my honor, that is all.”

God, sometimes Enjolras says shit like that and Grantaire’s heart just fucking  _ hurts _ . “Well.” He swallows. “Well, you get one now.”

Enjolras looks up. He’s a little misty-eyed, but he’s smiling, just a bit. “Yes, I suppose I shall.”

“Snacks!” Grantaire blurts out, so he doesn’t cry or hug him or promise him a cake every week of his life, or something stupid like that. 

Enjolras clears his throat. “Yes. Yes, snacks indeed.”

They buy snacks--too many, Grantaire would say, only he knows his friends and he knows that they’ll run out by the end of the night, anyways, so it doesn’t matter. And they might buy too much booze, too, because he  _ knows _ that Bahorel is bringing some, too, but Enjolras stands in the liquor department and murmurs something about  _ so many options _ and, well, Grantaire is there to teach him about the modern world, isn’t he?

“I’m rather excited,” Enjolras admits, as they walk home, arms weighed down by groceries. The sun is bright; it glints off of his curls and his cheekbones and his eyelashes, and the scar below his hairline has faded to a soft pink but Grantaire knows it so well, by now, that he can make out the shape just fine. “I enjoy meeting your friends.”

Grantaire nearly drops the bags he’s holding, but doesn’t, and that’s what matters. “Good. Good, that’s good.”

They walk back. Enjolras swears in the elevator. It’s nice.

Grantaire is never going to make enough dumplings in time and he feels like he’s going to die. He’d tried to enlist Enjolras, when Enjolras had come out of the shower, face fresh and hair dripping water down the back of Jehan’s shirt, but it had only taken a few minutes for Grantaire to realize that Enjolras, while very skilled at revolutionary essays and barricade construction, is just really, really bad at pleating dumplings. He’ll teach him how to do it some other time, he resolves, but right now he just really needs to get shit done, so he nudges Enjolras away from the counter and sends him off to go set the table.

He folds dumplings faster.

God, he should have made stew. He should have made a roast. He should have ordered fucking pizza, honestly, he doesn’t know what he was thinking, making dumplings for nine people on a time limit, he always fucking does this, and-

His phone rings. His hands are covered in dumpling filling.

He swears, takes a deep breath, and calls Enjolras.

Enjolras arrives in the doorway, napkins in hand. “Yes?”

“Can you pick up my phone for me? I’m covered in dumpling.”

“Of course,” he says, and Grantaire breathes easy for about two seconds before he says, “What is a phone?”

Oh.

Oh, man, that’s probably something he should have explained sooner. And he  _ will _ , he will, just- just, his phone is still ringing, and he’s covered in raw fucking pork, and the best he can do is point his elbow at where it lies on the counter and mutter something about glass and sound.

Enjolras, bless him, picks it up. He does not, however, answer the fucking call, but he looks to Grantaire. “This?” He asks, and his eyes are wide and lovely but the phone is still fucking  _ ringing _ .

“Yeah, yes, just- on the screen. Take your finger and slide it across the part that says  _ accept call _ .” He can’t quite make out what he’s doing, but the ringing stops, and-

“Oh,” Enjolras says, and he’s holding the phone like a spider, or a snake, or something. “Oh, it- It is speaking.”

Grantaire keeps folding dumplings, because if he doesn’t he is never going to get enough done in time for dinner, and normally, he wouldn’t be all  _ that  _ concerned, his friends can deal, but this  _ matters _ . “Yeah, um. Hold it up to your face and say hello and ask who it is.”

He does so, albeit very cautiously, and- “It says it is Combeferre,” he reports. “Is it a- a recording, as in a movie?”

The dumpling he is folding is already crooked. “No, it’s- Listen, just gimme the phone, it’s fine.” He gestures for Enjolras to put the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and he does, and Grantaire very resolutely does not think about how soft his fingers are, when they brush his cheek. “Thanks,” he says, a bit belatedly.

Enjolras is still staring at the phone.

Combeferre is talking-- he wants to know what kind of cake Enjolras wants. Grantaire asks him; Enjolras wants one with strawberries. Ferre seems to share Grantaire’s opinion that if the bakery does not have a cake with strawberries, he will simply have to find one that does.

Combeferre asks him if he’s stressing out about the dumplings. Grantaire doesn’t want to talk about it. Ferre laughs.

(Grantaire smiles a little, too, and his heart beats a little slower, but that doesn’t mean he’s  _ right _ , fuck, whatever.)

Somehow, somehow, Grantaire gets all the dumplings steamed and the salad made by the time the first person knocks on the door. It’s a tight squeeze, but he does it. He’s still breathing hard when he goes to answer it, but that’s not his fault, he just gets a little stressed before dinner parties. 

Enjolras stands off to the side, a little rumpled from his wrangling with the folding table, and Grantaire knows he’s biased, okay, but he’s pretty sure that nobody has ever looked better, ever.

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire opens the door.

Courfeyrac arrives first, arm and arm with Combeferre, who, so far as Grantaire can tell, Courf had run into on the street and simply tagged along with for the rest of the day; Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta arrive about five minutes later; they are followed by Jehan; Jehan is followed by Bahorel; Bahorel is followed by Feuilly, who had warned them all in advance that he would arrive a bit late, due to his work schedule. They all come bearing suspiciously large packages, and Grantaire wants to mention something about the pointlessness of asking them not to do so, but Enjolras is looking somewhat flighty, so he doesn’t.

Enjolras greets them all with a polite handshake and a smile; Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Jehan follow it up with a powerful hug, which flusters Enjolras but which he does not deny in the slightest. Bahorel gives Enjolras a hearty thump on the back that he clearly has no idea how to respond to, but he seems to like him fine.

Feuilly arrives just before dinner, rushed and still dressed for work but carrying a backpack that looks quite heavy, and Grantaire is caught up in conversation with Bahorel so he can’t quite hear what he and Enjolras are saying, but he sees the way Enjolras’s shoulders lose a bit of their tension; the way he steps closer, talks faster; the way Feuilly smiles that soft smile of his and leans a little closer, too, and Grantaire breathes and thinks that yeah, actually, this might turn out well.

When they eat dinner, Enjolras sits between Grantaire and Combeferre and across from Jehan and Joly and Courf, but after he and Feuilly try the impossible task of politely speaking about socio-economic factors down a table of Grantaire’s loud-ass friends for the third time, Joly wrangles Feuilly into switching places with him, anyways, because Joly doesn’t mind talking across people.

Enjolras turns to Grantaire, halfway through the meal. “So, the dinner is your doing,” he says, which both is and isn’t a question. Grantaire knows him well, enough, by now, to know he’s leading somewhere.

He nods, swallows the dumpling he’s eating. 

“I was under the impression that Courfeyrac had directed this event.”

Ah. Grantaire supposes that he should have probably explained a little better. It’s not like their parties are particularly normal for people that are  _ from  _ this century. “Oh. Um. So we do dinner, first, and then dessert-”

Courf cuts in. “And then we do gifts and everyone gets drunk and we crash on Grantaire’s floor.”

“It’s two parties, essentially,” Jehan says. “Dinner party, then a rager. Best of both worlds.”

“Ah,” says Enjolras.

“We don’t have to do that part,” Grantaire says, too rushed. “You can kick these losers out, if you want, it’s your party.”

Enjolras looks around himself, at everyone at the table. “No,” he says, at last, “No, that- That will not be necessary.”

Courfeyrac whoops. Enjolras jolts, a little, but smiles.

By the time Combeferre goes to get the cake from the kitchen, they’ve gone through a, frankly, terrifying number of bottles of wine. Grantaire’s head is spinning pleasantly. Enjolras has a flush to his cheeks and a glaze to his eyes, and he’s giggling with Jehan about something that Grantaire must have missed. 

It appears that Combeferre had succeeded in subtly bullying someone into making him a cake with strawberries on it, because when he sets it down in front of Enjolras, his eyes widen and he lets out a little gasp. Courfeyrac starts a cheer for a speech, and Grantaire wants to kick him, but Enjolras stands unsteadily and clears his throat.

“Um.” He looks around the table. “Um. I’ve not known any of you for very long at all, and some amongst you I have only met earlier tonight, but. I have found myself in a situation which I could never have anticipated, and you have taken me in and you have been so kind and you have bought me a- a  _ cake _ , and-” he wipes at his eyes, laughs a little wetly. “You are all true compatriots, and friends, as well, and I am more grateful than words may express. So. I thank you, I suppose, and for the cake, as well, so.” He sits down sheepishly. Courfeyrac cheers. Jehan leans their head on his shoulder. Under the table, Enjolras reaches out to grab Grantaire’s arm.

They eat cake, and Grantaire resolutely does not think about the face Enjolras makes at the first bite. And then-

“We done?” Courfeyrac asks, when the cake has been eaten, and he’s all but bouncing in his seat, and he always gets like this, no matter how many parties he throws, but Grantaire is starting to suspect that the possibility of introducing modern parties to someone from the 19th century has sent him into overdrive.

He sighs. “Yeah, sure, we’re done. Your turn.”

They get drunk.

Enjolras must have been telling the truth, when he’d said that he was a lightweight, all those weeks ago, because Grantaire’s been watching him, and he doesn’t even think he has all that many drinks, but when Courfeyrac sits him down on the sofa for presents, he stumbles a little and laughs, all bright and open, and Grantaire’s heart warms. He means to stand back--Enjolras already knows him, there’s no reason for him to hog the space, or the attention, but Enjolras calls his name and pouts until Grantaire sits down beside him on the couch, so.

Grantaire takes notes. Not because they really do thank you notes, but just because Enjolras doesn’t really seem all that up to remembering details, right now. Courf insists on giving his gift, first, and he watches eagerly as Enjolras opens the package to reveal-

“Oh!” Enjolras drops the gift with a start, and Grantaire gets only a glimpse of red fabric before it’s covered back up with tissue paper. He draws the gift back out with cautious fingers, lays it on his lap. It’s a pair of red gym shorts, shorter than anything Grantaire would wear, and he’s sure Courf must have had some kind of reasoning, and the bag isn’t empty, yet, but he can’t deny that it’s a little strange. “It’s… smallclothes?” Enjolras hazards.

Jehan leans in, whispers something that Grantaire can’t pick up on, but Enjolras gasps. “Without  _ anything  _ atop?” he hisses back, and Grantaire does hear that part. 

Courfeyrac stifles a laugh. “Turn them over.”

Enjolras does as asked. The butt reads  _ Enemy of the State _ in bold lettering.

Jesus Christ.

“I thought they were appropriate,” says Courf, and Enjolras still looks vaguely startled, but Grantaire is pretty sure, to his surprise, that he’s not actually that uncomfortable. Courf hands over a thick envelope, next, and Grantaire knows what it is, because Courf has done this before, but it’s clear that Enjolras doesn’t, not until he breaks the seal and finds himself looking down at a stack of banknotes that Grantaire wouldn’t even know how to begin to estimate. “Give you a little leg up,” Courfeyrac explains, and Enjolras grasps his hand and holds it tightly.

Things move quickly, after that. Feuilly has brought over a stack of books large enough it strains at the handles of the bag, scrounged up from his shelves and from second-hand bookstores, and he says that they are, in his opinion, the most important books from 1832 to the present, and Enjolras nearly cries while poring through them and has to be dissuaded from starting one before he can open the rest of his gifts. Joly gives him a pair of sneakers and a pair of sandals and a pair of formal shoes that must have cost him more than he’d ever admit; Bossuet, a bag of toiletries and junk food and underwear-- _ all the essentials _ , he says; Musichetta hands Enjolras an envelope that he opens to reveal-

“It’s a library card,” she says. “You’re supposed to have a form of ID and be there in person, but I handle the applications for the library, so I just snuck yours in there. So now you can go borrow books at any library in Paris.”

Joly beams. “She committed fraud.”

Enjolras holds the library card tightly. “You are a credit to your profession,” he says, although the solemnity of his words is marred, slightly, by the way he lists against Grantaire’s side.

Bahorel gives Enjolras a bag of weed. Enjolras doesn’t seem to know what it is, but he thanks him sincerely, anyways.

Jehan, when it is their turn, plops themself down on Enjolras’s other side and deposits a pile of scrunchies and barrettes and sunglasses and packets of Metro tickets and boxes of ice cream bars on his lap, and hands him-

“It’s a fake ID,” they say, brightly. “I know a girl who does them.”

Enjolras turns it over with clumsy fingers. “An ID?”

Jehan starts combing Enjolras’s hair into a springy ponytail. “Identification. Like, your papers. It’s fake, of course, but you can, like, buy alcohol and go on trains and apply for some stuff, now.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, softly, and he turns it back over to the front, runs his fingers over the words. “It says that I am born in Drôme,” he says, and Jehan hums. “And in the year of 1993, which is quite far from the truth.” He flips the card, once more. “Whose address is this?”

Grantaire leans over to look. “‘S mine,” he says, which he could have probably expected. And, God, had he really never told Enjolras his address? What if he’d gotten lost, he would never have found his way back if he didn’t even know the  _ street _ , Christ, he- 

He forces the thought from his mind. It’s a happy fucking occasion, he reminds himself.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, again. He’s grinning. “I live with you.”

“‘Course you live with me,” he says, because what other address would Jehan put on there?

“No, but-” He accepts the ice cream bar that Jehan hands him. “But now I  _ live  _ here. I exist as someone who lives in your apartment.”

There is something warm, nearly scorching, in Grantaire’s chest. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he says, but he wraps Enjolras into a clumsy hug. “It’s not even a legal document, you know. It’s not like you’re registered in any databases, or anything.”

“Well, that’s for the better,” Enjolras says, resolutely. “It is hardly the business of the government who I am and where I reside.”

Grantaire doesn’t really think that’s how IDs work, but his heart flutters a little, anyways.

Combeferre gives Enjolras his old phone and a glass of water, and Enjolras thanks him for both, but Grantaire is pretty sure Enjolras has no idea what to do with the phone. He holds it gingerly, letting the light glint off the screen. 

“Ah,” he says, “A- A phone, is it?”

“I’ll show you how to use it when you’re not quite so drunk,” Combeferre says, and then, to Grantaire, “It’s prepaid, but I don’t even know how much he’ll use it, so. Just text me, I’ve got it covered.”

God, Grantaire fucking loves Combeferre. And-

And Enjolras hands the phone off to Grantaire and laughs when Bahorel pushes another drink into his hands, and his fingers linger, linked with Grantaire’s, and- 

_ Oh _ .

The flutter in his chest has grown insistently stronger, larger, and his breath comes unsteady and Enjolras’s face is very, very close to his, and there is a smudge of something glittering across his cheek, courtesy of Courf, and-

“I’ll bring some of this stuff to your room,” Grantaire chokes out, and he gatherers the envelope of cash and the library card and the ID and the phone and stumbles off.

He sets everything down on Enjolras’s desk and shuts the door, just for a moment. In the other room, somebody--Courfeyrac, probably, but maybe Joly, maybe Musichetta--changes the music, turns it up louder. His head is still spinning. He-

He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. Christ. Christ, God, this is-

He can’t be fucking feeling this way. Nobody, fucking  _ nobody _ , not him, not Enjolras, not  _ anyone _ , asked him to care so fucking deeply. This isn’t even his god damn wheelhouse, fucking  _ caring _ , and now Enjolras comes along, and nobody asked him to fall in fucking-

Shit.

He scrubs a hand over his face. That is not something he should even be considering. Enjolras is smart and gorgeous and fucking- fucking  _ amazing _ , but that doesn’t mean that he needs anyone pining after him, right now, let alone Grantaire.

He takes another deep breath. He’s fine. He’s  _ fine _ .

The gifts on Enjolras’s desk are crooked; he straightens them, lays them out in a grid as he wills his heart to beat a little slower. Across the room, on the chair, lie Enjolras’s old clothes--the waistcoat, the trousers, the shoes, everything. Everything, laid out exactly as it had been, that first night, and every time Grantaire had seen it, too, and-

He goes a little closer, just to look, crouches down, and-

The shoes--laced, leather ankle boots, dark brown--are covered in a perfect, untouched layer of dust. There is something there, too, underneath it--mud, maybe, but it’s crusted at the seams and the color seems off. He picks at it, wracks his brain, and-

Oh.

Oh, that’s blood, caked on thick, and Grantaire no longer has to wonder why Enjolras hasn’t been able to stomach the thought of wearing them, of touching them, again. He wonders-

He wonders if the blood is from the man in the painting, the one he’d shot, or if there was simply enough gore on the streets that it was more like walking down an old road after a rain.

Tomorrow, he resolves, tomorrow he will do something useful. Put all this shit in a bin from Monoprix, or burn it, if that’s what Enjolras wants. Whatever he wants. 

He sets the shoe down and goes back to the party.

Somebody has dumped a pile of clothes all over the floor. Grantaire recognizes most of it--pairs of jeans he can vaguely place as Feuilly’s, or Bossuet’s; shirts he knows are Jehan’s; a jacket he thinks comes from Musichetta, unless she was borrowing it from Joly or Boss in the first place; shorts; slacks; button downs; tee shirts from various sources, various years. Enjolras stands beside it, holding a glass of wine and another ice cream bar and flanked by Jehan and Courfeyrac. They seem to be sorting the clothes into a pile, though by what system, Grantaire has no idea, because Enjolras is fully engrossed in a conversation with Feuilly which is almost certainly not about clothes. 

Grantaire leans against the doorframe and talks with Bahorel about… a date of Bahorel’s that went awry, he things, and he drinks what Bahorel hands him and watches Enjolras, until Enjolras wanders away from what Grantaire can only assume is the assembly of his new wardrobe and goes to stand beside Grantaire with big, round eyes.

Fuck, maybe he’s freaked out, or something. The music is loud, maybe- “Need anything?” Grantaire asks, when Enjolras has said nothing for long enough.

Enjolras shakes his head. “I thought I would join you? If you do not mind?”

Yeah, Grantaire’s pretty sure he doesn’t fucking mind. Doesn’t mind, and so Enjolras lingers close and stays quiet, mostly, until someone asks him a question, and-

And Grantaire can’t help but worry, because Enjolras is quiet, but rarely  _ this _ quiet. He asks, some time in--Enjolras is drunk and wearing the sunglasses that Jehan had given him and watching Feuilly put Bahorel in a headlock from where he and Grantaire sit on the couch, and- “Are you okay?” Grantaire blurts out. “I know they’re- They’re loud, and it’s late, I can ask them to leave, if you want.”

Enjolras frowns. His head lolls back on the sofa. “Grantaire,” he begins. 

Grantaire waits. Enjolras does not continue. “Yes?” he prompts.

“Grantaire,” he says, again. “If we are- If we are speaking honestly, I believe that this is the most content that I have ever been in all my life.”

And, well, Grantaire isn’t about to argue with that.

Grantaire is drunk, but he is not  _ lying on the pull-out couch in a pile and babbling about philosophy _ drunk. The same cannot be said for Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Jehan, who have been sprawled out on the futon ever since Grantaire opened it. The party’s not even going on, anymore; Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta have gone home, as has Bahorel. Combeferre is asleep in Enjolras’s room.

He washes the dishes and listens to the four of them bicker incoherently. At least, Grantaire thinks they’re bickering--Enjolras and Courfeyrac aren’t even speaking French, though, so fuck if he knows. He checks his fridge--he has enough eggs, thank God, because he already knows that he’ll be on breakfast duty, tomorrow, and he knows from experience that having to run out to the store with a raging hangover is horrible both for him and for whatever hungover stragglers crashed at his place the night before. 

“I’m going to bed, now,” he says, when he’s cleaned up the kitchen a little and left the rest for the next day.

Enjolras is wearing the  _ Enemy of the State _ shorts and is half covered by Jehan’s torso. “You are free to do so,” he murmurs. “I shall continue my discourse.”

Christ.

Grantaire tries to keep the smile from his lips, but doesn’t really succeed. “Suit yourself. Ferre’s asleep in your bed, though.”

“I mind not.”

Jehan giggles. “We’re sleeping together ‘cause we’re compatriots.”

“Sleeping together ‘cause we’re tired,” corrects Feuilly, who seems more focused on slowly hogging the blanket than on any potential philosophical dialogue.

“‘Cause we’re buddies.” Courfeyrac peers his head up from where it had been buried in Jehan’s neck. 

Grantaire sighs. God, he loves them all. “Yeah, okay. Goodnight, compatriots. Drink some water.”

“Sleep well!” Enjolras calls. He is echoed by his compatriots.

Grantaire lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling and listens to the four of them talk about  _ the people _ and shit like that and very resolutely does not think about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big chapter big chapter big chapter :^)  
> it had to be extra big so that enjolras could make some extra big Friendships :^)
> 
> anyways xoxo love u pls comment and say hi on tumblr


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes. The ceiling above him is made of perfect, bright white plaster, as it has been for two months, now.
> 
> He does not know why he is still alive. 
> 
> He is- He is trying, mind. To figure out why he still lives, when his compatriots do not, did not. To understand. 
> 
> He finds it difficult, most days.

Enjolras wakes. The ceiling above him is made of perfect, bright white plaster, as it has been for two months, now.

He does not know why he is still alive. 

He is- He is  _ trying _ , mind. To figure out why he still lives, when his compatriots do not, did not. To understand. 

He finds it difficult, most days.

Not all days--some days, Grantaire summons Thai food and they eat it on the sofa, together; some days, Combeferre takes him out to a museum of natural history and answers all of the questions he might ever desire to ask and asks him questions of his own; some days, Courfeyrac visits with a bottle of wine and tales of his roommate and he speaks with him in Provençal, and Enjolras is getting better at convincing himself that it is fine if anyone else hears that he is not speaking French.

But most days--Most days, he stares at the chair where his clothes once sat, folded, and he wills his mind, fruitlessly and for the hundredth time, to rid itself of grapeshot spray and of a man at his feet with a hole in his jaw and of the ticking of a pocket watch in his hand. Most days-

He scrubs a hand across his face, movements fast, jerky. He needs to  _ breathe _ , as Combeferre told him. He needs- He needs-

He muffles his gasp into the pillow, which surely does not help him to breathe, but Grantaire is in the other room making breakfast and Enjolras does not want him to hear, does not want him to know.

He is fine. He knows this. He  _ knows _ this, knows it well, and he is safe, and he- he-

(He is standing on cobblestone on a swelteringly hot evening in June, and at his feet is a man, praying, and Enjolras is going to kill him. He is going to kill him, and it is alright, for he, too, will be dead, soon--he knows this, this is the price that progress demands, but his hands are shaking and he breathes in time with this murderer, who is praying, and Enjolras cannot remember the last time that he prayed, and-

And he is staring down the barrel of a carbine at a man that is staring down the barrel of a cannon, back at him, and he is  _ young _ , so young, and he grips the linstock as a message but he is someone Enjolras may have spoken with over coffee, if he were someone else and the gunner was, too, but he is  _ not _ and he has rarely wished for guidance, rarely had it, rarely needed it, but he wishes for it now but there is none to be had, and the carbine jolts in his hands, and-

And-

And he is crouched behind the barricade and his muscles burn like fire and there is a man at his feet, once more, and Enjolras was not the one to put the hole in his gut, was not the one to shoot half his face off as if he was a particularly unlucky deer and not a child, too young to marry, but it is to Enjolras that he clings, cries, begs, and Enjolras wants to shoot him, if only to release the hand that grasps at him, and there is blood everywhere, bone everywhere, and if Enjolras does not move soon he will be shot but he cannot free his ankle from his grip and when he leans down to prise the fingers off, he cannot, and the air smells more of gunpowder and smoke than it does of spring and the man is dying, Enjolras knows it, and maybe then he will release his grasp, and-)

And- And he is crying, sobbing heavy and aching into the pillow and gasping for breath, and his head aches from everything and nothing at all. 

He gets up, makes the bed, takes a shower. His head aches. He thinks about the jolt of a carbine under his hands.

He gets dressed, in short trousers--though not the ones gifted to him by Courfeyrac-- and- and a  _ tee-shirt _ , he believes it is called. He thinks about the jolt of a carbine under his hands.

He joins Grantaire for breakfast.

Grantaire is at the table, already, with a plate of eggs and a mug of coffee; there is a second mug set out for Enjolras beside him. He looks tired. He looks comfortable. 

“Good morning,” Enjolras says, a little too late.

He looks up with a start. “Hey.” He is smiling. His cheek is creased from the pillow. “Eggs’re on the stove.”

Enjolras serves himself some eggs and sits down across the table from Grantaire. He never- He never quite knows what to say, at times like this, when Grantaire has yet to begin a conversation but Enjolras wants him to. It seems quite natural, for Grantaire--starting conversations, but he- “How goes your day?” He asks, and winces. It’s only eight o’clock. 

Grantaire looks similarly confused. “Um. Good? I’m off to work, in a little while.”

“Ah,” says Enjolras.

“Oh, and Jehan says they’ve been trying to reach you.” Grantaire takes a sip of coffee.

He frowns. “Reach me? How so?”

“They said they sent you a text last night.”

He does not believe that he received- “In the mail?”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “On your phone.”

Oh. Yes, that was probably more likely. He is not very good at remembering to look at his phone, probably because he never quite understands what it is that he is looking at. “I shall go and fetch it,” he says, and he goes and fetches it from his desk. 

He brings it back to the table and hands it off to Grantaire. Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre have been rather insistent on his  _ learning to use the phone instead of just making someone else do it _ , but, well. He doesn’t  _ like _ to. 

“You gotta learn how to use your phone,” Grantaire grumbles, as he taps at it. “What do you do when I’m at work? What if you get a message?”

Enjolras frowns. “Well, I do not look at it.” It’s rather obvious.

“What if somebody needs to talk to you?”

He sounds like Combeferre. “You sound like Combeferre.”

Grantaire slides the phone back across the table to Enjolras. “Just- Look.”

He looks. The glass is illuminated, glowing white. Gone are the small squares; they have been replaced with plain white and a blotch of words on a spot of grey. He squints at it. The lettering is blocky, rounded, too plain. It makes his head hurt. 

“Are you reading it?” Grantaire asks. (He isn’t.)

He concentrates. “Jehan says they wish to take me to lunch, and to stroll about.” He quite likes the idea--sitting about the apartment is significantly more boring when Grantaire is away at work, and boredom offers up far too many opportunities for his thoughts to get the better of him, to remind him of the clutch of a hand at his ankle and the reek of iron in the air.

Grantaire takes another sip of coffee. “And do you want to?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, because he does.

“Okay, so text them back.” That, Enjolras does not quite understand.

“Pardon?

“Let them know you want to hang out with them.”

Enjolras stares at the phone, then pokes halfheartedly at it. The glass changes back to the squares. “I know not how,” he says, once he has determined that he will not be able to do so on luck alone.

Grantaire sighs, then gets up to sit in the chair beside Enjolras. “Look, here, just-” He taps at one of the squares, and the screen turns white, again, like before. “This is your texts.” Enjolras does not see any texts. All he sees is Jehan’s message, again. “Tap the line on the bottom.”

He eyes it warily. “Perhaps you ought to do so.”

Grantaire nearly does, Enjolras sees it, but he pulls his hand back. “I’m serious, you gotta learn. What if I’m at work and you need to text me? What if you’re out and you get lost?”

And, well. 

He would still prefer if Grantaire would have done it, but he obediently taps at the line. A row of letters appears. “What is this for?”

“For typing. You spell it out, then tap the blue circle with the arrow in it.” As if it were as simple as that. Enjolras cannot remember the last time he had to stop and spell out words by the letter--perhaps he did such a thing in school, when he was a child? As such, he does not recall it.

But Grantaire is watching him over the rim of his cup of coffee, so he leans forward and carefully taps at the screen--Y-E-S-T-H-A-N-K-Y-O-U-T-H-A-T-S-O-U-N-D-S-L-O-V-E-L-Y--and taps the circle with the arrow in it and shows him the phone.

Grantaire makes a noise that is so choked, so stifled, that it takes Enjolras a moment to realize that it was a laugh. “Wh-” he draws in a shaking breath. “What does that say?”

He frowns. Is it not obvious? He looks to where Grantaire is pointing, on the phone, and-

Oh.

Below Jehan’s message is a jumble of senseless letters, which, he supposes, must be his message. “Oh.” He leans a little closer, to look. It really is incomprehensible. “There is no need to laugh.” He does not mean to pout, but- “It is quite difficult, you know.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire gasps, and he takes a few breaths to collect himself. The corner of his mouth is still twitching. Enjolras does not mind. “Sorry, yeah, I know. I know.” He draws in another, deep breath. “Sorry.”

Enjolras looks down at the letters again. “It is rather humorous,” he admits, but he slides the phone over to Grantaire. “Perhaps you had better do it, this time.”

Grantaire hums and writes out a response, fingers flying faster than anything Enjolras could have imagined doing himself. He can’t help but wonder as to how he remembers where each letter is--they do not seem to be placed in any particular order, but his fingers find them with ease. And then-

He slides the phone back to Enjolras. (Enjolras does  _ not _ groan, but he does give Grantaire his very best affronted look.) “You gotta learn how,” he says, and for a moment, Enjolras wants to- to  _ snap _ at him, to inform him that he has managed quite fine for twenty six years without such nonsense, and there is no reason for him to bother with it now, and just because Grantaire is from this time and Enjolras is not does not mean that Grantaire knows  _ everything _ , and-

He swallows that bilious thought down with some coffee. Grantaire  _ is _ right, of course. Everybody seems to use their phones for everything, and everyone seems to possess one, and- and they do seem  _ convenient _ , he admits begrudgingly, and perhaps to be able to contact Grantaire, or Combeferre, or Jehan at a whim might be nice, it’s just- He just doesn’t understand. It frustrates him. “Fine.”

The phone chimes. He looks at it. “Jehan has written that they shall come by at half past noon,” he reports.

“Now reply,” Grantaire coaches. 

Enjolras does groan, then, though it comes out as more of a growl. “Unfortunately, I know not what to write or how to write it, as you are aware.”

Grantaire does not flinch, just moves his chair a bit closer. “Just say ‘okay’. Type slow.”

And-

And, yes, maybe Enjolras can do that much. He leans over the phone, taps at the little letters and minds the way they come out on the line, but- “I have erred. There is a ‘Z’ on the line.”

And all in an instant, Grantaire is leaning over the phone with him, his forearm pressing warm and firm to Enjolras’s. (Enjolras does  _ not _ blush.) He points to a small key with an arrow sign on it. “Press that,” he says, as though Enjolras can even breathe. “It deletes the last letter you typed.”

Enjolras presses it. It deletes the last letter he typed. He pokes at the letters, again, pokes at the blue button with the arrow until the phone makes another sound and-

And Grantaire smiles at him, and claps him on the shoulder. “There you go, man.” His hand lingers, before he pulls it away; Enjolras wishes he would not pull it away at all. “Basically tech literate already.”

Perhaps, if Enjolras keeps making noncommittal noises, Grantaire will believe that he understands what he is saying. Because Enjolras, he  _ knows _ he ought to- to-

To, as Grantaire had said,  _ tell him if he doesn’t understand something, yeah? _ He knows that. And yet-

And yet it proves impossible, for he understands  _ nothing _ , fucking  _ nothing _ , and at times, the thought of admitting to it, of asking yet another question about something that must be so obvious, something that everyone else seems to have figured out quite well on their own, burns like bile in his throat. He is not a  _ fool _ , he reminds himself, over and over and over again, but that is very difficult to believe when he understands less of this world than a child would. When he has twenty-six years of planning, and of education, and of books and of lectures and of experiences and of knowledge, and none of it means anything at all, he-

“Enjolras?” Grantaire’s voice cuts through the vitriol, uncertain.

He is, in an instant, aware of the fact that he has been glaring at the spot just to the left of his mug of coffee for longer than he would intend to. He blinks. “Apologies.”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras does not know to what he replies, but his hand hovers, halfway to settling on Enjolras’s forearm, and he tugs it away before it does but Enjolras wishes that he hadn’t.

Enjolras takes a sip of coffee. 

“Listen, I’m gonna go get ready for work,” Grantaire blurts out--suddenly hasty, suddenly awkward. 

He hopes he has done nothing to offend. “Fine.”

Grantaire remains seated. “So- So, I’ll just-” He stands, too suddenly. The chair scrapes against the floor. “I’ll-” He goes.

Enjolras eats his breakfast and thinks.

Grantaire has been…  _ odd _ , as of late. Nothing serious, of course. (He hopes not. He hopes Grantaire has not taken ill--for though it is summer, though it is warm, many diseases prefer to run their course in the hotter months, and to rule it out would be careless, so he hopes- He hopes not.) But he has been-

He has been overfamiliar, Enjolras might say, though the truth of the matter is that Enjolras does not think that such a thing is possible, for all that he welcomes Grantaire’s so-casual touch. And so that is not what worries him--after all, he welcomes it, though he shouldn’t. What worries him is what happens after: Grantaire gets close, brushes a hand over Enjolras arm as they speak, and then scrambles to pull back and make his excuses as Enjolras struggles, for the hundredth time, to begin to find the words to get him to stay.

It is odd, to say the least.

It is also somewhat insulting, though Enjolras tries not to take it to heart. It is not as though Grantaire spurns him consciously--he has been quite sure to guard close the fact that he feels…  _ amorously _ towards Grantaire. It is quite unlikely that he knows at all, to be frank, and yet-

And yet, it is difficult to ignore the fact that Grantaire so clearly does not see him as even a possibility. Which is fine. It is fine. Of course it is fine. Grantaire surely has many suitors, whether he is in the market for one or not, and all of them likely are proficient in using a phone and know about movies and understand him when he speaks, and it is neither Enjolras’s fault nor Grantaire’s that he cannot measure up. Such is life. One cannot be lucky in all love, and that is normal, and that is  _ fine _ .

The shower turns on; Enjolras can hear the rush of water against tile like rain.

Enjolras does not pout.

He doesn’t.

He and Jehan go out to eat at a café, and perhaps Enjolras is pouting, somewhat, because halfway through their meal Jehan frowns, sets their fork down, and rests their chin in their hand to look Enjolras over.

Enjolras looks up from his salmon that he was  _ not _ glaring at. “Yes?”

Jehan prods at his shoulder with a yellow-lacquered finger. Their fingernails are always done up that way, in bright, shining color; Enjolras wonders absently how they apply the color, how they change it. “You doing okay?”

He huffs. He  _ is _ , he is fine, and it is ridiculous for him to worry about such things when there are more pressing needs, but- “What do you know of Grantaire’s suitors?” he asks, for if anyone would know, it is Jehan, and surely to ask would not be too much. Friends inquire about their friends’ romantic lives all the time, he assumes. This is normal.

Jehan’s brow furrows. “Suitors?” they ask, though Enjolras would rather get this part of the conversation over quickly.

He nods.

“Grantaire doesn’t have  _ suitors _ ,” they say, as though the concept is humorous. Enjolras does not find it so.

Perhaps- “Is he- Is he… dating with someone?” he tries, though the phrase sounds wrong, when he says it. 

They are still looking at him curiously. “Grantaire’s not seeing anyone. Dating isn’t really his thing, let alone suitors.”

That’s- “Why?” Enjolras asks, because it’s all that comes to mind. It’s just- It’s just ridiculous to consider, that Grantaire would not have suitors in some form. Admirers, maybe. A dating. (That sounds incorrect, as well.)

“Why do you want to know?” Jehan shoots back, and-

Enjolras stiffens, keeps his gaze firmly on his plate. This, this is too far. Jehan is his friend but they were Grantaire’s friend, first, and he will not- he will not put them in that position, he will not make them choose between guarding his shameful secret and being honest with Grantaire, and-

“C’mon, man, I won’t  _ tell _ ,” they say, and their voice is so fond, shockingly so, that Enjolras finds himself looking up, and they smiling, and-

_ Oh _ , because Jehan wasn’t- wasn’t investigating, wasn’t prodding, they were  _ teasing _ . Teasing, as friends do, and they’re leaning in close, over the table, and Enjolras has never before wished to share such a thing with anyone, but his heart feels as though it may beat itself to bits and Jehan is so kind, and-

“I-” he clears his throat, struggles to find the right words, or any words at all. He can feel a flush, rising hot to his face, but Jehan just smiles broader and leans in a little more, as if the two of them were school children passing secrets in a lecture and not two grown adults at a table on the street, and- “I find him-” the word escapes him, yet again, as though it does not wish to be uttered, “lovely,” he finishes, lamely. His cheeks are hot.

Jehan is beaming.

Enjolras nearly smiles, too, hesitant and cautious, but he catches himself. “You mustn’t tell,” he presses, because it  _ matters _ .

“I won’t,” Jehan says, but they are still smiling far too broadly for Enjolras to know that they do not joke. 

“Swear to it,” he says, too sharp, but he always is, isn’t he?

Jehan beats their smile back to a serious line that only twitches a little at the edges and holds out a hand. “I swear it,” they say, solemn as anything, as Enjolras shakes it, and for a moment- for a moment, this, he recognizes. This is easy.

And then Jehan lets their smile break through again, like sunlight in the forest, and they poke at Enjolras’s cheek and say, “Aw, you  _ like _ him,” and this, Enjolras does not recognize, but perhaps he likes it better, this way.

“You hardly need announce it to the whole of the street,” he says, in a pout, but he cannot fight the bashful smile that rises to match Jehan’s. “I just- I find him kind. And rather nice to talk to. And he wears- Surely you are aware of this, you are quite knowledgeable on these things, but- I am unused to so much-” he gestures vaguely to his arms, to the scooping neckline of Jehan’s shirt. “And Grantaire, he- he is rather strong, isn’t he, and quite attractive, in a bohemian sort of way, and-” he breaks off, pokes at his lunch. It is difficult to bring himself to meet Jehan’s gaze.

“You  _ like him _ ,” they say again, softer, this time, but no less enthused, and Enjolras rolls his eyes like a petulant schoolboy before he can stop himself, but, well, none of his new friends ever seem to mind such breaches in etiquette, anyways. “This is so exciting!”

“Must I fetch you some smelling salts,” Enjolras chides, though his cheeks are still hot, “Or do you believe that you shall recover from the shock on your own accord?”

They take a deep, deliberate breath. “I’m good. I’m good. It’s just, this is the most exciting news I’ve heard all  _ week _ , you  _ like him _ .”

Enjolras takes a bite of his salmon and listens as Jehan goes on for a little bit longer.

They go walking, after; Jehan loops their arm through Enjolras’s and guides him around corners, pointing out buildings as they pass and holding a little tighter when Enjolras, despite his best efforts, jumps at a siren or at a car that drives too close, too fast. Some streets, some buildings, he recognizes, despite the metal scaffolding that rises up around it all and the rush of cars over tarred-over roads, and he supposes that it is testament to the fact that he is acclimatizing, somewhat, to this time that he takes more note of these relics, these familiar bricks, than of the new--streets named after people he has never heard of, buildings wrought in glass and metal, roads planned out where there were none, before.

Jehan narrates, all the while--pointing out restaurants that are good, and ones that are bad, and ones that Grantaire says are bad but are really perfectly fine; telling stories of various wild nights spent at bars they pass; mentioning that Courfeyrac happens to live nearby, actually, and perhaps they should stop by, only he’s probably at work. 

They’re only just discussing that last point when a rather bedraggled young man with dark hair crashes directly into Jehan, as they walk. Enjolras flinches at the impact, moves to pull Jehan behind himself when-

“Marius!” Jehan says, brightly enough. “Speak of the devil, honestly.”

Enjolras wills his heart to stop pounding. It nearly works. “You know this man?” he asks Jehan; he cannot quite bring himself to drop his arm from where it loops with theirs.

They nod, lay a comforting hand on Enjolras’s arm for a moment. “This is Marius, Courf’s roommate.”

He draws in a deep breath, then extends a hand; Marius shakes it. “Enjolras,” he says. “I am staying with Grantaire.”

Marius makes a strange, awkward expression somewhat akin to a smile. “That’s funny, you know?”

He frowns. He does not know. “How so?”

“It’s just- Enjolras, like the philosopher. Any relation?”

Enjolras nearly, but does not quite, choke on his own saliva. “No.”

“I guess you hear that a lot, though. It’s not a super common name. I’ve never met an Enjolras before.” Marius is looking at him with a sort of painful earnestness that rubs a little wrong on his skin. He had not anticipated this particular problem. 

“I have never heard tell of any other Enjolrases,” says Enjolras, like a fool. “I am new to-” he catches himself- “to Paris. You understand.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” says Marius, and for a moment, Enjolras thinks that that shall be all, but- “You should google him, he was pretty neat. He was, like, this political philosopher in 1830, or something, and he wrote this set of essays that- Well, it’s a little intense for my taste, but they’re interesting. If you’re into philosophy. And nobody knows where he ended up, because he ran away to England after one of the rebellions and became a sheep farmer. I think. I’m pretty sure.”

(Jehan, at Enjolras’s side, seems to be trying quite valiantly to bite back a laugh, to moderate success.)

Enjolras clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Oh. Um. Thank you.” And then, tacked onto the end, “For telling me this. I shall google.” Whatever that means.

“Nice, yeah, gotta study up!” Marius says, quite mystifyingly, and then, as though he, too, had realized the strange nature of his comment, winces. “So, you’re living with Grantaire?”

“Yes,” he says, to be polite, although he would rather continue his stroll with Jehan. 

And-

And Marius laughs, a little awkwardly, a little quietly hysterical, and says, “I mean, that’s gotta be interesting, right?”

The polite smile that Enjolras had been holding drops from his cheeks. He does not quite like the way in which Marius seems, quite strongly, to be  _ implying _ something. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, it’s just-” he breaks off, suddenly hesitant. “Not that I don’t like Grantaire, or anything, it’s just, he’s a bit of an acquired taste, isn’t he?”

There is something sharp in Enjolras’s chest. “I’m afraid I do not know to what you refer.” His voice, too, is sharp, perhaps too much so, and Marius seems liable to escape, either within himself or off down the street, but his heart is beating a bit too hard in his chest, and-

Jehan holds his arm a little tighter.

Marius, despite the vaguely ill shade upon his face, carries on, for better or for worse. “I mean. I can imagine he might be a bit of a dick as a new roommate? He’s just not really good with new people. Or things. Or. Yeah, new things. It took him about a year for him to talk to me at all, voluntarily, so I guess I can’t imagine that he would take too kindly to somebody he doesn’t know moving in, is all.”

And-

And, actually, that’s-

“Oh,” he hears himself say. He feels somewhat lightheaded. “I was not aware that- that he felt as such.” He’d thought- Grantaire had seemed to like having him around, he’d thought. Grantaire cooks for him and wraps an arm around his shoulders when they watch movies on the couch, but-

“I mean,” Marius cuts in, because something must be showing on his face, or on Jehan’s (Jehan looks  _ angry _ \--Enjolras does not believe that he has ever seen Jehan angry.) “I mean, I’m not saying he doesn’t like you, I’m sure you’re a great roommate, and I don’t really- I don’t even really know him that well, so what do I know, right?” He lets out an awkward laugh. 

Jehan clears their throat, purposeful. “Well. It was lovely to see you around, Marius. We have to go.”

“Yeah,” Marius says, sheepish. “Um. Sorry.”

Enjolras’s head is still spinning. He wishes that he could sit down. “Pleasure to meet you, Marius.”

“Sorry,” he says, again.

Jehan nods, as close to curtly as they get, and they bustle Enjolras away and down streets and around corners and up the stairs of a building and inside of an apartment and-

Oh, this must be Jehan’s apartment. It is shockingly spacious--much larger than Enjolras’s student apartment, or even Grantaire’s mid-sized one. The furniture is mismatched, old, comfortable-looking. A curtain made of beads hangs in a doorway. On the walls are several paintings, framed simply but well, done in oil--Enjolras does not know much of art, he never has, but it is difficult to imagine that they could be anything but all from the same artist. Perhaps Jehan knows them, he reasons. Perhaps Jehan themself paints, although they have never mentioned such a thing

He leans a little closer to the nearest one--a portrait of two young women and three boys, all children in their own right. He wonders-

“Grantaire does them,” Jehan explains, before he can even ask. “He never knows what to do with any of his paintings, so I keep them here, in case he does a showing, or something. That way he doesn’t paint over anything.”

His mouth still feels very dry. “I did not know.”

They toss their keys into a small bowl and sit Enjolras down on the sofa--he was right; it is comfortable. “A lot of people don’t know, or didn’t know, you shouldn’t- You shouldn’t feel bad, that’s just… Grantaire.” They sit down beside him. “He doesn’t like it when people know he cares about shit.”

“Grantaire cares about a lot of- of shit.” He stumbles over the word, but continues, because it’s  _ true _ . Grantaire cares about food and about movies and about folding dumplings correctly and about dinner parties and about art and about friends and about strange, time-displaced men that he finds bleeding on the street. (He thinks.) 

“ _ I  _ know that. Ferre knows that.” Jehan sighs, kicks a heel up on the sofa. “You know that. Marius is just a little- He’s not always all that aware of everything.”

Enjolras is reminded of the chilling drop in his gut, of standing in the street, lightheaded, of (of standing on cobblestones, head reeling from a cannon-blast that hit a little too close, of) Jehan’s arm in his. “Yeah,” he says, but he cannot keep the sadness from his voice. “But-”

“If Grantaire didn’t want you around, he would say so, and you could come live with me or with Ferre or with whoever you want.” But Enjolras does not  _ want _ to live with Combeferre or Jehan or anyone else, he- “Marius is nice, honest, but sometimes he’s kind of a dick by accident. Don’t listen to him. He pisses Grantaire off, anyways, he doesn’t exactly have the most accurate perception of how he interacts with new people.”

He nods. His throat still feels a little thick. “May I- May I stay the night here?” He asks, and it is horribly presumptuous, but-

Only, maybe it isn’t, because Jehan had  _ said _ , however long ago, that Enjolras was always welcome, and they are friends, and perhaps this is what friends do. 

Jehan eyes him warily. “Are you just trying to avoid Grantaire?”

Yes. Perhaps. Only for a little while. 

“No!”

They frown, look him over for a few seconds. “You have to text Grantaire and tell him we’re having a sleepover so he doesn’t freak.”

Enjolras does not know what a  _ sleepover _ is, but it sounds well enough. “I shall,” he says, “though my ability to do so is… lacking.” He draws his phone from his pocket, presses the button atop, and-

“Oh. There is already a message.”

Jehan leans in to look with him, directs him to “swipe” across the glass, and-

**_Are you ok?_ ** The phone reads, and the line at the top tells him that the message is from Grantaire, and-

**_Coming back for dinner? might make stew?_ ** It reads, below the first message and a line that says the time on it. Enjolras hadn’t even realized that the afternoon had passed so rapidly into evening. And then,  **_Enjolras?_ **

He frowns. He did not- “I did not realize that he had been trying to contact me.” Perhaps he should return, instead--he does not truly wish to share a meal with Grantaire, for once, if only because he knows, he  _ knows _ , how he will be unable to rid himself of the thought that- that Grantaire does not wish him to be there at all, but perhaps he ought to-

No. He is selfish, after all, but is it truly selfishness if Grantaire might even  _ enjoy _ having a night to himself? Enjolras is  _ not _ putting off an important discussion, he is simply being polite. Truly. 

**_s-t-a-y-n-g-n-i-f-h-t-a-t-j-e-h-a-n-s-s-o-f-r-y-b-b-b-e-b-s-c-k-i-n-m-p-r-n-i-n-n-g,_ ** he spells out, for he cannot quite manage to find the button to separate the words, but he presses the blue circle with the arrow in it and the screen changes and Jehan nods, so he figures it can’t have been  _ that  _ bad.

Only a few moments pass before the phone makes a noise, jolts in his hand, and when he looks down there is a new message.  **_Okay_ ** , it reads,  **_Have fun._ **

He does not know why he feels so bad.

They get drunk.

They buy some Thai food from the restaurant across the road from Jehan’s apartment, first, and they lie on the bed eating satay and drinking wine and listening to music that Enjolras does not understand, not in the slightest. 

Enjolras does his honest best not to think about Grantaire, not to think about Marius, not to think about young men with holes in their jaws and a hand around his ankle. He truly, truly tries. It nearly works.

“Do you think-” he begins, despite his efforts, once he and Jehan are the both of them truly drunk and in sleep clothes and lying upon the bed. Jehan makes an inquisitive sound. “Do you truly think that Grantaire does not mind my living with him?”

There must have been some hint to his voice, something to give him away, because Jehan links an ankle with his and rolls their head across the pillow to regard him with hazy eyes.

Enjolras does what he can to hold steady beneath their gaze.

A few moments pass, and Jehan makes a mournful sound and brushes Enjolras’s hair out of his eyes. Enjolras lets his head rest against their forehead.

“I like him so much,” he admits, against the thin cotton of their shirt.

“If he doesn’t like you back,” Jehan says, firmly--or, as firmly as anyone can, in their state. “He’s an idiot.”

Enjolras thinks privately that there are a fair amount of idiots in this world, evidently, though he dares not say it aloud.

The following morning, Enjolras walks home-- _ back to Grantaire’s apartment _ , his mind presses, but no,  _ home _ sticks firmly--with an ache in his head and a pair of Jehan’s darkened spectacles perched on his nose and a haphazard map, hand-drawn, tucked away in his pocket. He finds he does not need the map--he has always remembered streets well, and the pattern of the roads is not so very different from the way it was before--but he is glad to have it, anyways. The key, too, sits heavy in its pocket, chained delicately to a little plastic bauble that Grantaire had bought when he’d had the key made.

He does not feel bad for sleeping at Jehan’s apartment. He doesn’t.

He  _ doesn’t _ . He is a man, not a child, and Grantaire is his friend, not his… guardian, or anything of that ilk, and if he should decide to pass the night somewhere else, that is his business and his business alone. In all likelihood, Grantaire did not mind at all. Perhaps he was even glad to have the apartment to himself. Which is fine.

He presses the numbered buttons to enter the building, and considers, briefly, taking the elevator--he has been meaning to grow used to it, but it is rather difficult to do so when it is both horrifying and somewhat inconvenient--before walking briskly past it to take the stairs. He opens the door, a greeting on his tongue, when-

Ah.

Right.

Grantaire is at work for the day already, which Enjolras supposes he should have remembered. The lights are off; the shutters, closed. There is a note on the table.

**Left for work** , it reads,  **Leftovers in fridge. Made coffee if you want any. Text if you need anything. -R**

Oh.

This- This is fine. And it is Enjolras’s own doing, truly, for if he had wanted to take his breakfast with Grantaire, he should have known better than to stay the night with Jehan, it is that simple. And he needn’t eat with Grantaire  _ every  _ morning, for that would be clingy and overbearing. Perhaps this is for the best. 

(It does not feel as though it is for the best.)

His gut makes a malcontented sound, loud in the quiet of the apartment. Perhaps he should have eaten before he left Jehan’s. He opens the refrigerator, pokes through it halfheartedly. There is a new… putterwear? (That sounds wrong--tutterwear? Putterware? Butterware?) There is a new plastic container of food in the refrigerator, and that must be what Grantaire had been referring to by  _ leftovers _ , so he pulls it out and opens it and-

Ah. It is- It is the beef stew, the one that Grantaire had offered to make the night before. Enjolras had assumed that he had simply put it off for another day, but perhaps- perhaps Enjolras had responded to his message rather late; he must have decided to make it upon the assumption that Enjolras would return. 

Enjolras curses himself under his breath. This is why he is not in the habit of keeping friends, he is  _ poor _ at it, and he does foolish things and wrecks things that ought not be wrecked. 

He heats the stew up in a pot over the stove and stares down at it and thinks about Grantaire and thinks about the heat rising from noon-time cobblestones and the baking of blood upon them and-

He stirs the pot, does his best to focus on the breath in his lungs, but-

(But he can hear the spray of grapeshot against brick and cobble and the bodies of men, can feel- can feel the ticking of a pocket watch in hand, for there is a man at his feet and he is pleading, he is praying, and he has shot a man, so he must die, and Enjolras shall be the one to kill him, so by that logic- by that logic, he, too, must die, and he has always been prepared for this but he did not think- he did not think that he would feel so very young, and-)

He eats the stew at the table and wishes that Grantaire was there across from him, telling him about something pointless and funny and wonderful.

Grantaire returns. He asks Enjolras about how his lunch with Jehan went, and how Jehan is doing, and if he was alright, staying the night somewhere else, and if he got his note about the stew in the fridge when he got back and if his key is working alright. He looks tired.

“Do you feel well?” Enjolras asks, before he can curse himself for his own lack of tact. It’s just that- Well, Grantaire always looks a  _ bit  _ disheveled, but he rarely has such shadows beneath his eyes. 

He grunts. “Couldn’t sleep.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “So you had a good time with Jehan?”

Enjolras nods. Why couldn’t Grantaire sleep? Perhaps he was, indeed, worried, but surely not enough for him to- but. But, maybe, maybe. 

“What did you-” he clears his throat. “What did you talk about?”

_ You _ , Enjolras wants to say, but he cannot. Instead, he says, “Philosophy,” which is too vague and yet probably sufficient, given how exhausted Grantaire must be. He does not seem very up to theory, at present. 

“Oh,” says Grantaire, “That’s- That’s good. That you’re hanging out with people.”

“I-” he takes Grantaire’s words, hopes that he uses them correctly, “ _ hang out  _ with you.”

Grantaire scoffs. Something goes sharp in Enjolras’s chest, like a fractured rib. “I don’t count. You live with me.”

“But-” He frowns. “But we are still friends, and comrades, are we not?”

He bites off something like a stifled curse. “Course, yeah, but. I can’t talk about philosophy, you know?”

Enjolras does know, and he does not. “Why should it matter if we discuss philosophy? Neither do you speak Provençal, as Courfeyrac does, and I do not expect this of you. Why should I?” He is hardly the expert on- on  _ friendship _ , but this, even he knows--what is the use of having multiple friends if one is expected to speak only of philosophy with every one of them? It would get old, surely, and Enjolras would miss… Whatever it is that Grantaire and he discuss.

Grantaire does not look as reassured as he ought. Instead, he looks rather pained. “Right,” he bites out, as though proving a point. Enjolras does not understand what he has done wrong.

His mouth feels- feels dry, almost. “Oh.” He wants- he wants for Grantaire to say something, to talk to him,  _ anything _ , but he stays silent. “How was your day? At the museum?”

“Boring,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras’s heart sinks, before he says, offers, “They’re putting in a new exhibit. I don’t think I’ll be on that shift, but it’s. I thought it sounded cool. It’s on Degas, and- I guess you wouldn’t know him.”

He doesn’t, has never heard mention of the man, but that does not mean that he does not wish to. That does not mean that he does not wish to hear Grantaire tell him about him. He shakes his head.

(There are- There are so very many  _ things _ that he does not know. Perhaps if he knew more about this world, Grantaire would find it easier to speak to him. Perhaps he ought to find a book on painters, so that he might discuss such things with Grantaire. He has never understood much about art, itself, but he has always  _ liked  _ it, so surely- surely that would help.)

“What kind of art does this Degas create?” He hazards.

Grantaire looks up at him in surprise. “Oh, he-” he clears his throat. There is a smile hinting at his lips. “He was great. He did paintings, and sculptures, and he did this really fascinating work on dancers, ballet dancers, he was- Well,  _ I  _ think he was a genius. Really, really brilliant stuff. Maybe-” He breaks off, bites at his lip.

Enjolras picks up where he hopes that Grantaire may have left off. “Perhaps you could bring me to this exhibition, once it is open?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, and he is smiling. “Yeah, sure, if you want.”

Enjolras does want. He wants, and wants, and wants.

Courfeyrac comes to visit on a Thursday, and it is hot, blisteringly so. Perhaps Enjolras is going mad--it cannot possibly be that the summers are truly hotter, in the 21st century, but he cannot help but to remark that it certainly  _ seems _ as though they are. This one, at least. It is as good an excuse as any to wear the short trousers that Courfeyrac had gifted him. Not that he would ever dare to wear them out of the apartment, of course, but-

But, inside the apartment, he sees no reason why he should not bare his legs, regardless of how…  _ scandalous _ it still seems. He is in the 21st century. Men can kiss on the street. Women wear trousers, and are lawyers and librarians and conductors of orchestras. Why should he not bare his thighs to himself and to his friends? It is within his rights.

Courfeyrac laughs, when Enjolras lets him into the apartment, and tugs at the hem of the trousers in jest. Enjolras bats his hand away and laughs, too. (He thinks that he likes having friends. He likes it a lot. At times, he lies in bed and, between bursts of grapeshot and prayer, wonders how he ever managed to go about things without any. It is difficult to imagine, now.)

They sit on the sofa. Grantaire is home--he sits at the table, looking at his phone--but when Enjolras leaves a spot for him to join them on the sofa, he shakes his head and gathers up his effects and returns to his bedroom. 

Courfeyrac pulls a face. “What’s up with him?” His Provençal--or, Gascon, he’d said--is accented, nearly-fluent, full of strange differences and pronunciations that Enjolras has had to grow accustomed to, falls easy on Enjolras’s ears. It is hopelessly familiar and endlessly strange, and Enjolras had known that he had missed speaking it, of course, but he does not think that he had realized that he had to such a dear extent. At times, when Courfeyrac speaks, stilted and not-quite-correct, something quietly gaping within him fills with such suddenness that he is stunned by it--by the very lack of lacking. 

At the moment, he is rather too caught up in the slam of Grantaire’s bedroom door to think such sentimental thoughts. (The door slams, and his heart slams with it, and he smells gunpowder and smoke and there is the jolt of a carbine under his hand, and the blast of a cannon before the spray of grapeshot, and-) “I-” he swallows. “As a matter of fact, I do not know.”

Courfeyrac swears under his breath. “You guys didn’t get into any kind of fight, or anything?”

He shakes his head mutely. “I had believed that things were- that they were as normal.”

Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder. “Then don’t worry too much,” he says, thought Enjolras does not feel as though he can help it. “He just gets… pissy, sometimes. Weird. Just the way he is.”

Yes, Enjolras wishes to add, around new people. Around Enjolras, perhaps, and perhaps for good reason. He does not blame him, cannot, but his ribs ache. “I am sure that all is well,” he says, in falsehood. 

Courfeyrac frowns. “Well, fuck him, I guess. Wanna watch a movie?”

They watch a movie.

Enjolras does not understand much of it, at first--it is in a language which he does not speak, in a city he does not recognize--but there are words, dialogue, in French, at the bottom of the television, and Courfeyrac explains it all, as it occurs; Enjolras expects that he has seen the movie before. He explains that the movie takes place in a city in Korea; that wi-fi is what makes phones work, somehow; that Chicago is a city in America. The rest, he understands perfectly well. 

It is a good movie--not that Enjolras is qualified to speak on the quality of movies--and he watches it intently, eyes fixed on the words at the bottom of the television, and in doing so, he nearly misses the  _ click _ of the door opening, the sound of a few soft footsteps on the floorboards.

He hazards a glance over his shoulder, and-

And Grantaire stands, leaning against the doorframe, watching him with such a fond expression upon his face that Enjolras feels- feels frozen, caught in it, for just a moment. (What he wouldn’t give to have Grantaire look at him like that all the time. What he wouldn’t give to keep a bit of the warmth it brings.) He flushes, ruddy and dark, when he sees that Enjolras is looking back, and looks away, but by then, Courfeyrac, too, has taken note of his presence.

“R!” Courfeyrac crows, and Enjolras startles, the same as Grantaire. “Watching Parasite, wanna join?”

Grantaire’s throat works. “Oh,” he manages, “No, I-” He points to the kitchen. “I was just gonna grab some coffee.”

Courfeyrac pulls a face. Enjolras wonders if it would be horribly inappropriate to ask Grantaire to stay. 

He decides against it.

Grantaire gets his coffee and returns to his bedroom, but not before giving Enjolras another one of those looks that wrenches somewhere in his gut in a way he wishes would never, ever stop.

“Sheesh,” says Courfeyrac. “He is being weird.”

Enjolras nods and focuses on the movie and on trying to breathe.

Grantaire is already gone and left for work when Enjolras wakes for breakfast, the following morning, which is strange, because--he checks the clock on the wall, just to be sure--it is no later than he usually awakens, and typically Grantaire has enough time to eat leisurely, to chat over whatever it is that he has prepared, and yet-

And yet, he is not there. Instead, there is a hot pitcher of coffee in the coffee-making machine and a dish of potato and onion and sausage with a note upon it in the fridge. He pulls the dish out as he sips his coffee and reads the note.

**_Heat this up in the microwave_ ** , the note reads, in Grantaire’s scrawling, blocky script, but he does not- He knows that he has heard the word  _ microwave _ before, but he cannot quite place it. Surely, he reasons, something in the kitchen, although what does he know of kitchens? He reads on.  **_The microwave is the metal box next to the coffee maker._ ** Ah, he supposes, that solves that problem. He tugs experimentally at the… well, he expects that it is a handle. The front opens.

**_Open the microwave with the handle_ ** , says the note--already accomplished. 

**_Put the container inside_ ** , Grantaire goes on to say, and so he does.  **_Do NOT! NOT! Put a fork or a spoon or tinfoil or anything metal inside the microwave. You will blow up the microwave and set my apartment on fire, do NOT._ ** And that does not make much sense at all, he thinks, for surely- surely, metal is more durable to heat than glass, and certainly than  _ potatoes _ , but he removes the fork, nevertheless, and sets it aside.

**_Close the microwave._ ** Done.

**_Press, in this order, these buttons: “Time” “1” “0” “0” “START”. If you mess up, press “STOP” and start again._ **

He squints at the paper, and then at the microwave. It does have buttons, he supposes, in the way that a phone has buttons--flat against the surface and indistinguishable from one another. Horrid things. He presses at them, anyways, and only swears a little and only needs to begin anew twice. He looks back down at the note, once the machine is… humming and rotating ominously, as he hopes that it is meant to do.  **_Wait until it beeps, then open the door and take out your food_ ** , the note reads.  **_If it takes more than a minute, you did something wrong and you should open the door after a minute or so. Don’t microwave your food for ten minutes you will burn down my apartment._ **

Truly, Enjolras does not fancy all of this talk of burning down apartments, but he watches the microwave rotate and listens for the  _ beep _ and minds the clock on the wall. There are numbers counting down on the microwave--seconds, he presumes. 

The microwave  _ beeps _ . He takes the food out, pokes at it. It is hot, though, he notes, upon further examination, the microwave itself is not. 

Strange.

He takes his food and his coffee and sits down at the table and takes out his phone. He is not quite sure if he had been expecting Grantaire to have texted at him or not; regardless, Grantaire has not done so. But he wishes-

He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps at it for a few moments until the glass has Grantaire’s name atop it, and then spells out  **_lefftearkytgismprning_ ** with the letters-buttons. One day, he reasons, he will surely discover how to put spaces between words, as well as how to put things such as question marks and commas and semicolons. That day is not this day.

The phone makes a noise when he has nearly finished his coffee.  **_Early meeting,_ ** the first message says, though Enjolras has never heard Grantaire mention any such thing before. Then,  **_Did you get the microwave to work?_ **

**_yyys,_ ** he sends.  **_noforkm,_ ** then,  **_aartmemtintact_ **

**_Good, have a nice day,_ ** the phone reads.

**_silluouvebackfrdfimner,_ ** he writes and sends.

Grantaire does not write back until Enjolras has finished his breakfast.  **_Yeah_ ** , he says, and Enjolras holds tight to that.

It is Tuesday, and Enjolras is on the floor, sobbing harsh and aching into the cushions of the sofa, and he cannot- he cannot  _ breathe _ , and the sofa surely is not helping, but- but-

But-

He heaves a sob and hears gunfire and the voices of men and somebody is screaming, thick and desperate, but he is- he is staring down the barrel of a carbine at a man with fine features and a flintlock in hand, and his hand is shaking, and there is something hot on his cheeks but the cannon is being reloaded and the barricade cannot take another blow, and-

And it is night, heavy and reeking of blood and shit and smoke, and the man at his feet is praying, and-

There is a spray of grapeshot, but that isn’t right, that can’t be right, and-

And the man at his feet is praying, and he can feel his pocket watch ticking in his hand, beating odd against his heartbeat, and-

And there is a spray of grapeshot, only-

The man at his feet is begging, now, and Enjolras does not recall having told him his name, and yet he says it, pleads it out as though Enjolras could do anything to change his mind now, and it is alright, for he, too, will meet his end here, and that makes it fine, he tells himself, because- because if he shoots himself, and then is shot, then it will be over, but the man is pleading, praying, and the watch is ticking in his hand, and-

And the boy at his feet, the boy with a hole in his gut and a hole in his jaw, is young and bleeding onto the cobblestones and he has both too much and far too little life inside him, and- 

And there is blood in Enjolras’s shoes, coming in the seams like gutter-water, and-

There is a spray of grapeshot, but that isn’t right, because-

The boy, the one with a hand on his ankle and a hole in his jaw, is groaning and holding to Enjolras as though he can help him, as though he, too, will not be shot to bloody bits like an unlucky deer come morning, as though anyone could help him, and Enjolras tries to pull away, but he cannot, and he would not have thought that the boy would hold his grip, so, and-

And there a spray of grapeshot, and he is sobbing, heaving great, chest-wracking sobs into the cushion of Grantaire’s sofa, and-

And he wonders if it is worth using a bullet to shoot the boy who keeps him there, half-exposed and half-dead, the both of them, and perhaps it-

There is a spray of grapeshot-

Perhaps it would be cruel  _ not _ to shoot the boy, to leave him there with a hole in his gut and a hole in his jaw, but Enjolras is selfish, and for a moment he wishes that they had the bullets to spare to use one for himself, instead, because the boy will not stop screaming, will not stop bleeding, will not stop dying or living or holding on to Enjolras’s ankle, and-

“Enjolras!” somebody says, and yes, that is what it had sounded like, because there is a man at his feet, praying, and-

“Enjolras, Enjolras, hey, fuck, hey, Jolras, you-” There is a hand, warm and broad and heavy, on his back, and he can do nothing but sob and struggle to breathe and lean into the arm that comes to wrap around his shoulders, and-

And he is shaking, it seems, deep tremors that wrack him as much as the sobbing, but Grantaire only gathers the both of his wrists into one of his hands and holds them close to Enjolras’s chest and then holds Enjolras close to that of his own.

He-

His throat stings, stripped raw from sobbing, and with it comes the sting of smoke in the air and of yelling to men who may listen but who may not and who may die for it, either way, and- and a carbine jolts under his hand, but Grantaire holds the both of his tight, anyways, and-

And-

A- And-

Grantaire is rocking him gently, holding him tight and not paying mind to the way that he sobs messily into the shoulder of his shirt, and- and he is speaking, he realizes, low and muffled against Enjolras’s curls, but he cannot make out the words, and he- he would like to ask, but he cannot breathe, cannot- cannot-

He cries into Grantaire’s shoulder until he cannot cry any longer, and then Grantaire convinces him up onto the sofa beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders and holds him closer still. 

“Enjolras?” he asks, ever-tentative.

His throat protests, at the thought of speaking, but he hums an answer, anyways. Grantaire is so, so warm against him. 

“Are you-” Enjolras can feel him swallow. “You okay?”

He wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand. Is he? “Um,” he says, wetly. “I- I am sorry, for- for that, you-” he breathes. “I-”

His heart is still pounding. 

His heart is still pounding, and his thoughts spin wildly, and that must be the reason why he could swear he feels Grantaire press a kiss to his temple. 

They sit, pressed together, and Enjolras does not know for how long they do so.

“What happened?” Grantaire asks, once Enjolras can breathe a little better, but he does not- he does not  _ know _ , and he wracks his mind, and-

“There was-” he struggles to think back. “There was- There was a sound, and- You have never heard- never heard grapeshot, you would not know, but this- It was only-” He breaks off with a shred of a laugh, bitter, hysterical. “It was only a chain, I believe, falling from a carriage, but-” he swallows. “And I should not have- I should have realized this, but it sounded- It sounded like grapeshot, grapeshot on stone, and I-” he looks to Grantaire helplessly, because perhaps he will have understood some mite of that, perhaps-

Grantaire is watching him with something impossibly sad in his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and his throat sticks, somewhere in the middle of the word. “Yeah, that’s- I can- Are you okay? Do you want me to get you anything? I could- I could call Combeferre, he’d come over, I could’ve- I should’ve called him earlier, but I wasn’t thinking, you know, not my forté, but-”

“I do not want Combeferre.” It is baffling--why should Grantaire- why should he- “Not that- I  _ like _ Combeferre, he is- he is a valued friend, but I do not-” he swallows. Some things, some things, he cannot say, but he cannot help but to lean into Grantaire’s embrace, anyways. “Why should I want Combeferre?”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “Listen, I-” He sighs. “Fuck, I don’t really want to get into this right now, okay?”

But- But, no, actually, Enjolras does not feel as though it is  _ okay _ , because- because his heart is pounding and Grantaire has been avoiding him all week and he can hear the spray of grapeshot across stone, and- “Why should I want Combeferre?” He asks, presses.

He winces. “Enjolras-”

“Simply because you do not wish to spend time with me? I have heard that it is impolite to foist such unpleasant duties off on one’s friends.” It is too sharp, too harsh, but his heart is still hammering away in his chest and he does not  _ understand _ , and he has never been truly kind, anyways. 

“Enj-”

“Have you another meeting you need desperately attend, despite it being outside of your work hours and without warning? It sounds quite urgent, perhaps you had better go.” He does not know why he is still  _ talking _ . He does not know why he seems to be doing all he can to push Grantaire away, when what he truly wants is for him to hold him close and never let him go. 

It hits true, and Grantaire pulls back, a little, grimaces. Enjolras does not know if he feels satisfied or vindicated or miserable. “Enj,” he tries again, but Enjolras wants, needs, to push further, like picking at a scab before it is fully healed, just for the satisfaction of bleeding, once more.

“I say, if you would rather eat your breakfasts alone, there is no need to lie about it, God knows I-”

“I’ve been trying to give you some  _ fucking  _ space!” Grantaire cuts him off, loud and harsh and ragged. “So- So fucking  _ excuse me _ , okay, for trying to- I didn’t know that you didn’t-” he breaks off, swallows.

That-

That does not make sense. Why should he-

“Why would I want space?” Enjolras wonders aloud.

Grantaire draws in a breath, slow and deep, and buries his face in his hands. “Because-” he gestures vaguely. “‘Cause you’ve been hanging out with Jehan, and Courf, and Ferre, and that’s- I’m glad, honest, but it’s just- I don’t want you to feel like you have to hang out with me just ‘cause we’re roommates, you know, and I know- I know you don’t, like,  _ hate  _ me, or anything crazy like that, but I also- I don’t really know anything about history, or philosophy, and I don’t speak Occitan and you’re super smart, you know? And so it’s great that you’re hanging out with Ferre and Feuilly and everyone, and I just thought- I just thought I’d give you some space. All things considered.”

Enjolras cannot breathe. “I do not want space,” he chokes out. “Not from you.”

Grantaire lets out a laugh that is too bitter, too sharp, and looks down at himself. “But, I mean, I-”

Enjolras does not know what he could even be implying. “You are-” he clears his throat, grimaces. “In all honesty, you are the dearest friend that I have ever had.”

He does not mean to meet Grantaire’s gaze, after that, but Grantaire is so  _ silent _ , and it itches beneath his skin like sand, and so he looks up. Grantaire is staring at him with wide, wide eyes, his mouth frozen half-open, as though he had forgotten to close it.

“Grantaire?” he hazards.

There is a flush to his cheeks that was not there, before. “I am?” he chokes out. 

Enjolras nods, because it is true.

“Oh,” says Grantaire.

“Marius said-” Enjolras begins, and he curses himself, because he did not mean to bring this up now, but he needs- he needs- “Marius said that you do not like- that you do not take well to change. To new things. To new-” he shrugs, but it feels jerky, awkward. “To new people.”

Grantaire swears. “When did you talk to Marius?”

“When I went to lunch with Jehan.” He bites his lip. “But Marius, he said that maybe- That maybe, because you do not know me very well, that- that-”

Grantaire looks particularly pained. “But I  _ want _ to,” he says, and something tugs in Enjolras’s gut. “I want- I know that I don’t know you very well, and that I’m an asshole, and Marius is a dick but he’s not wrong but I  _ want  _ to. To know you.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and his heart is still thrumming away in his chest but he thinks he might be smiling.

Grantaire’s arm has found its way to press against Enjolras’s; Enjolras links them together at the elbow. Grantaire closes his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m allowed,” he grits out, and Enjolras knows the feeling, so he draws in a deep breath and begins to speak.

“I grew up in my family’s house, in Drôme,” he volunteers. “I did not have any siblings who lived past infancy, but I had several cousins, my mother’s older sister’s children, and they all lived in the house, as well. It was a large house. They were older. When it was hot, and when I was young, they would hurl me into the pond on the edge of the property.”

He cannot quite recall the last person he has ever told so much to; it is possible that he has never done any such thing at all. Perhaps it is too much, he considers, but Grantaire just shifts to wrap an arm around his shoulders, once more, and to pull him in close. 

He continues. It is easy, too easy, to do so, with Grantaire’s breath ruffling his hair. “When I left for Paris, for my studies, I was seventeen, and I always thought- I always did think that I would visit, that I would see them again, but Drôme is- It is very far, and to hire a carriage is expensive, and- And I wrote, as much as could be expected, but I never did return. I was considering- I was considering doing so for Christmas, at the time, but, of course-” he laughs quietly. “Such things did not occur, for reasons that are evident.”

Grantaire holds him tighter, shifts so that the both of them are lying on the sofa, back-to-front, and he shuts his eyes.

“I think about the barricade all the time,” he admits, in a whisper. “All the time.”

Grantaire buries his face in the back of Enjolras’s neck and does not let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enter marius. poor fucking marius. he's trying his best but i am contractually obliged to bully him a little bit.
> 
> enjolras looks at a phone and his brain is just like *aol dial-up noises* also SOMEBODY please get my mans some fucking reading glasses
> 
> anyways hang out with me on my tumblr. send me asks. message me. i never shut up and i want to know what everyone thinks and i will appreciate you so much :^)
> 
> leave a comment! ask me questions! i crave cOMMUNICATION


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing is-
> 
> Okay, so the thing is, Enjolras has been Grantaire’s roommate for three months, now, and it’s nice. They eat breakfast together, and Enjolras pulls out his notebook and asks him all the questions he’s thought of since he last saw Grantaire the night before; they sit on the couch, side by side, reading, and sometimes, when Grantaire is very lucky and Enjolras isn’t quite so caught up in his own head, Enjolras will sit sideways with his legs propped up over Grantaire’s own; when Grantaire is at work, Enjolras texts him strings of misspelled words that Grantaire is honestly getting pretty good at reading, despite the typos and his refusal to acknowledge the space bar. Nice, see? The thing is-
> 
> The thing is, Enjolras just seems pretty dead-set on breaking Grantaire’s heart, very slowly, every fucking day.

The thing is-

Okay, so the thing is, Enjolras has been Grantaire’s roommate for three months, now, and it’s _nice_. They eat breakfast together, and Enjolras pulls out his notebook and asks him all the questions he’s thought of since he last saw Grantaire the night before; they sit on the couch, side by side, reading, and sometimes, when Grantaire is very lucky and Enjolras isn’t quite so caught up in his own head, Enjolras will sit sideways with his legs propped up over Grantaire’s own; when Grantaire is at work, Enjolras texts him strings of misspelled words that Grantaire is honestly getting pretty good at reading, despite the typos and his refusal to acknowledge the space bar. Nice, see? The thing is-

The thing is, Enjolras just seems pretty dead-set on breaking Grantaire’s heart, very slowly, every fucking day. Not that Grantaire thinks he’s doing it on _purpose_ , of course not--Enjolras is kind and cautious and sweet and funny, and he’s Grantaire’s friend, and most importantly, for him to be aware of the fact that he’s making Grantaire’s heart do funny, fluttery, achy things would require him to also be conscious of Grantaire as a romantic possibility to any extent at all, so. Yeah. For obvious reasons, that’s not the case. 

It’s cool, though. Grantaire doesn’t give a shit how much his own heart aches whenever Enjolras tells him something super, super sad, because- Because, okay, he’s an asshole a lot of the time, but he _likes_ Enjolras, and Enjolras needs to be able to, like, confide in somebody, and somehow, that person is… him. Enjolras trusts him. Enjolras does not want space, Grantaire reminds himself, again and again and again, not from him. Not from him. Enjolras likes Grantaire and he trusts him and he doesn’t want space and they’re friends. Which is great. Awesome. 

It’s also the reason why Grantaire finds himself where he is now--sitting across the table from Enjolras over breakfast and watching as he picks at the tablecloth. His breathing comes fast, shallow in his chest, and really, Grantaire should have seen this coming. Enjolras has been… _off_ , since the day before--stiff, like he’d been that first week; cagey around Grantaire, cagey around everyone; weirdly, uncharacteristically silent. (Enjolras is often _quiet_ , yes, but not _silent._ ) And he hates when Enjolras gets like this, so obviously worried, so obviously drawn into his own head in a way that tightens his shoulders and makes him start at loud noises, and he tries to help, when he sees it coming on, and he’s getting better at it, and so- so really, Grantaire should’ve anticipated the way that Enjolras draws in a deep, shaky breath, and-

“I have- I have misplaced your pen,” Enjolras blurts out, which is… not what Grantaire had been expecting.

“What?” he says, instead of anything useful. 

“Your pen. I have misplaced it.”

Grantaire, in a bid for a few more thoughts in his head, takes a gulp of coffee and subsequently burns the roof of his mouth. He makes a noise a bit like a dying cat; Enjolras looks up in alarm. “Burned my mouth,” he explains.

“Ah,” says Enjolras. He presses on. “You must know that- that I did not intend to misplace it, truly, but it has always been a rather unfortunate habit of mine, to allow my pens to escape me, but,” he swallows. “But I shall look for it, for it must be here _somewhere_ , and-”

“Um,” Grantaire says, and then his brain starts up again. “It’s- It’s cool, man, it’s no problem.”

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

“What?” Seriously, what?

“It _is_ a problem.” Enjolras’s hands shake, where they lie on the table. Grantaire doesn’t know what he did wrong.

He takes another sip of coffee, burns his mouth again, swears. And then, because Enjolras doesn’t seem particularly resolved on relaxing, not even a little bit, “No, listen, it’s- it’s just a fucking pen, right? You can find a pen anywhere. I’ve got them all over the apartment, you can use whatever you want. You can use a pen you find on the street. Pens are everywhere. Pens are practically free, don’t- don’t worry about it, honestly,” he fumbles out, rambling, but Enjolras’s face just closes off more. 

Grantaire watches Enjolras’s throat bob. His hands are still shaking. (What Grantaire wants, what he always wants, when this happens, is to take Enjolras’s hands in his own and hold them tight until the tremors cease. He’d done that, the one time, when he’d found Enjolras on the floor and gasping for breath against the side of the couch, and- and it had helped, he thinks, and Enjolras’s hands had been bony and fragile and strong, only, now Enjolras is watching him with a cool regard that stings, just a little, and he may be dumb, but he’s not _that_ dumb. Not so dumb as to reach out.) 

Enjolras swallows again, stands. “Thank you for the breakfast,” he says, terse and low, and just like that, Grantaire wishes that he _had_ reached out, if only to keep Enjolras at the table a little longer. Instead, he watches as Enjolras clears his dishes and washes them in the sink and returns to his room.

Fuck.

The next morning, Enjolras sits across the table from him and pokes at his food and does not ask him about cars or about music or about history or about the refrigerator or about _movings_ , and Grantaire watches him and wonders what the hell he did wrong.

The morning after that, Enjolras drinks his coffee and makes polite conversation, but his hands twitch and he, yet again, asks Grantaire nothing, nothing at all. Which is fine. It’s _fine_ , really, and just because Grantaire has gotten attached to their routine--of Enjolras poring over his notebook and asking Grantaire dozens of questions between sips of coffee, of Grantaire trying desperately to recall what scraps of knowledge he retains from high school, of the both of them chatting about something Grantaire’s never even fucking thought about before until Grantaire is running late for work--doesn’t mean that it has to happen every morning. Enjolras probably just doesn’t have any questions. It’s probably fine.

Yeah, Grantaire thinks, as he watches Enjolras pick at the tabletop, it’s absolutely fucking fine.

The morning after _that_ , Enjolras asks him nothing, and Grantaire doesn’t push, and they eat their breakfast quietly and Grantaire does the dishes and gets ready to leave for work, because it isn’t his business, it _isn’t_ , and-

“Hey, are you mad at me?” He blurts out, like an idiot, and he’s halfway to the door, keys in hand, frozen.

Enjolras looks up from his tartine. There is a smudge of jam on his thumb; he licks it off sheepishly before speaking. (Grantaire’s gaze catches, skitters off.) “No?”

It’s not very convincing. Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face.

“Should- Should I be?” Enjolras has set the toast down, now, and he worries at his lip. 

Fuck, Grantaire doesn’t even know. He sets his bag down, shoves his hands in the pockets of his work pants. “I just-” he swallows. “You haven’t- You haven’t been asking breakfast questions.”

Enjolras frowns. “Breakfast questions?”

“Yeah, like,” God, it sounds fucking stupid now that he’s saying it out loud. “Like. You usually ask me questions about stuff while we eat breakfast. Like, new stuff. And you, you haven’t. So.” He shrugs. He kind of wishes he’d just gone to work, now.

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and he says it soft as anything. “I-” he doesn’t continue.

“It’s cool,” he says. It isn’t cool. 

“No, I-” Grantaire forces himself to look back up from the floor. Enjolras is- He’s biting back a smile, despite himself, and there’s something bright in his eyes, and he’s wearing one of Feuilly’s old sweaters in the chill of the morning, and (Christ, but Grantaire’s fucking gone for him) he continues. “I was not aware that you-” He makes an awkward, abortive movement to push a curl out of his eyes. “As I told you,” he says, finally, and it’s sheepish--bashful, almost, “I misplaced your pen. And- And I have looked, mind, but this always does seem to happen to me, and to be truly honest, it is a bit of luck that I managed to keep hold of it as long as I did, but-” he shrugs. 

Something wrenches in Grantaire’s gut. God, he’s an asshole, he- “I didn’t- I said you could use anything you find,” he says. His voice cracks. “You know you can- You know you can use anything you want, here, right? Like, really, what’s mine is yours, man, you don’t have to _ask_ , or anything, you- did I tell you that? Because really, you-”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras cuts him off. He is still hiding a smile, cheeks flushed. Grantaire draws in a deep breath and very resolutely does not think about the fact that Enjolras _told_ him that he didn’t have a pen and clearly he hasn’t been writing anything, and he’s a fucking _writer_ , right? He has, like, essays, and shit, so obviously he needs to write stuff down, and- “I know. But-” he sighs. “It’s rather foolish, honestly.”

Grantaire shakes his head. He doesn’t think anything Enjolras says is foolish. (Combeferre might argue with that sentiment, because according to him, Grantaire is _too biased_ to notice anything funny, but Combeferre isn’t here.) “It isn’t,” he says, like he knows what Enjolras is even talking about.

“It is,” says Enjolras, “I simply- I simply rather liked that you had given that pen to me, and I found myself rather attached to it, for- I suppose I didn’t have many things of my own, at the time. And you gave it to me. That is all.”

And-

And-

“Oh,” Grantaire breathes. His heart is pounding. He didn’t- He didn’t- “I didn’t- I didn’t know,” he chokes out, which is such a fucking understatement it’s laughable. (Enjolras likes him, he reminds himself, Enjolras thinks he’s his friend. His _dearest friend_ , to be precise, and so Grantaire should _expect_ shit like this, should be able to get through it without keeling over or proclaiming his love or crying or something, but it’s- it’s _hard_.)

Enjolras shrugs. “I will find another,” he says, and he takes a sip of coffee. “However, _you_ will be late to your work.”

He checks his phone--he _is_ running late. “Fuck. Okay. Um. I’m gonna go?”

“Have a good day,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire mutters an affirmative and leaves before he can make even more of an ass of himself.

Over his lunch break, Grantaire goes down to the gift shop and spends ten whole minutes staring down at the overpriced pens before he buys one with a clear center filled with glitter that floats in water over a background of water lilies and another that has the name of the museum embossed on the side that sits heavy in his hand. Neither of them are worth the price, but he pays and doesn’t complain and sticks them in the front pocket of his bag, anyways. 

The rest of the day drags long, horribly long, and Graitaire snaps at visitors and dicks around on his phone when he should be paying attention and texts Bahorel back, when he gets a message. 

**_Come out w us tonite?_ ** The text reads, then, **_Havent seen u in ages_ **

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. He shouldn’t, he thinks, or- or maybe he should, because Bahorel is right, he _hasn’t_ been out in ages, he just hasn’t really wanted to, but- **_Sure send where/when_ ** , he sends back. **_Whos coming?_ **

**_Me Feuilly Courf Joly Boss maybe Musichetta maybe Jehan_ ** , Bahorel sends, and, yeah, actually, that sounds nice. **_Bringing Enjolras?_ **

And-

And, actually, yeah, he _does_ want that. Wants Enjolras- Wants Enjolras by his side, and laughing, and talking with Courfeyrac in Occitan and gazing up at Feuilly with those wide eyes he gets whenever Feuilly says something clever, and the thought of Enjolras reading at home while Grantaire goes out to get drunk without him sits unsatisfyingly in his chest, and- **_Maybe_ ** , he sends. **_I’ll ask him._ **

He probably won’t want to come out. Grantaire knows that. He’s, like, recovering and shit. But-

But, yeah. Maybe.

Grantaire gives Enjolras the pens when he gets home. Subtly, of course, but it’s not a big deal, it _isn’t_ , and just because Grantaire happened to be the one to give him the pen, just because Grantaire happened to be the one around for him to get attached to, doesn’t mean he wants-

“ _Oh_ ,” breathes Enjolras, once he’s freed the pens from the tissue paper and the bag, and all of Grantaire’s plans for _subtle_ go right the fuck out the window. 

“I thought you might-” he swallows. “You said you didn’t have a pen, so I. I just thought I’d get you some while I was out.”

Enjolras is still looking up at him with wide, wide eyes, where he sits on the couch. His hair is falling out of its ponytail, mussed on one side--Grantaire thinks, rather absently, that he must have been asleep before Grantaire came back. “Grantaire,” he says, “Thank you.” It sounds much, much too serious, when he says it like that, and it tugs at something somewhere deep in his ribs, and so he shakes his head.

“‘S no big deal,” he says, because it probably isn’t, not to anyone but Grantaire himself. And then-

And then Enjolras is taking Grantaire’s hands in his own, pulling them close for just a moment, his grasp strong and hopelessly delicate all at once, and Grantaire can’t fucking breathe, not with the way that Enjolras is looking at him. “It is indeed a ‘big deal’.” Grantaire can pick the words he quotes back out of the rest, hear the way they sound clumsy and hesitant on his tongue, and he really shouldn’t be so fucking enamored by it all. Really.

He forces himself to draw in a deep breath, let it out. “Okay,” he manages.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, again, before he releases Grantaire’s hands and Grantaire’s breath with them. 

Grantaire joins him on the couch and wills his heart to slow the fuck down. “So, um, what have you been up to?” he asks.

Enjolras draws a book from behind him with a sheepish grin--de Balzac again, Grantaire notes. “I continue on my mission.”

“Oh?” He says, because if he can just get Enjolras talking, he can sit back and watch and not have to worry about sounding like a dickhead. 

He hums, then- “One would not expect that any one man would even be capable of writing so much, would one? And yet, I have been reading diligently for months, and I am not even truly close to finishing. It is almost frustrating, at times.”

“Well, you don’t have to finish.” Grantaire can’t quite tear his gaze from the way the evening light hits Enjolras’s cheek, even as he talks. “You could just. Stop reading it. God knows I haven’t read more than a few books of his.”

Enjolras shrugs. “No, I do not think that I shall. He will not best me, mark my words.”

“Yeah, okay.” Like Grantaire has a choice in the matter, as to whether or not he notes every word that comes out of Enjolras’s mouth. Like he has, upon seeing Enjolras, sleep-rumpled and sweater-clad on the couch, any chance of doing anything but agreeing. 

“How was your day of work?” Enjolras pulls the scrunchie from his hair as he asks it, starts putting his hair back up. Grantaire watches his hands, watches the way the light glints off his curls, before he clears his throat enough to answer.

“Fine. Boring.” He stretches, groans. “Bahorel wants me to go out with him and the guys tonight.”

Enjolras finishes putting his hair in its ponytail. He’s left a piece out, just on top--it curls, loose; Grantaire can’t bear to tell him. He hums, which is- Which is enough of a positive reaction, by Grantaire’s guess, to-

“You can come, too. If you want. Bahorel invited you, and I want you there, if you- if you want to come, I know you sometimes don’t really like to do stuff like that, but-” he breaks off, shrugs. 

He watches as Enjolras thinks it over. Or, like, thinks _something_ over--he’s certainly in his own head over something. “Where will you be going?” he asks, finally, which is not a no, and that’s better than what Grantaire was expecting. 

And, well, he doesn’t exactly know, yet, since Bahorel hasn’t told him, but he does know _Bahorel_ , so- “Couple bars, probably. Might go dancing, if Jehan tags along, but maybe not. Just, you know, get drunk, have fun, hang out. That kind of thing.”

Enjolras runs the words over; Grantaire hears him murmur it back-- _get drunk, have fun, hang out_ \--just under his breath. 

“You don’t have to go,” he reminds him, only half-frantic. “Fuck, I don’t even have to go, if you’d rather stay in, we could just watch a movie, or something.”

“No,” says Enjolras. “It may be… exciting. We should both go.”

Grantaire does not, does not, punch the air in victory. To compensate, he ends up grinning like a fucking sap, but, well, you can’t win everything. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, then, I’ll tell Baz.”

They go out. Enjolras swears in the elevator, clings to Grantaire’s arm like he hasn’t taken it dozens of times, by now. Fuck, it’s not like Grantaire minds.

It’s not like he minds the way that Enjolras doesn’t let go, once they’ve left the building, either. Not, he thinks, except for the fact that he should probably- he should probably tell Enjolras, at some point, about the whole… thing. The whole, _the implications of casual physical contact between you and your friend have changed drastically_ , thing. The whole, _people think we’re dating when you hold onto my arm, most men don’t fall asleep on their friends’ shoulders, sometimes you smile at me and Bahorel gives me a look,_ thing. That thing. Because-

Because, fuck, okay, he doesn’t mean to drag it out, honest, it’s just pretty fucking hard to bring himself to tell Enjolras to tone it down a little when he’s only just starting to be fucking _comfortable_ around Grantaire, around everyone, around everything. It’s pretty hard to tell him to tone it down when- when, God, sometimes Grantaire can’t help but to pretend that maybe, maybe-

“Grantaire?” 

“Huh?” He pulls himself from his thoughts. “Hm?”

Enjolras is watching him, brow furrowed. “Do you know where you are going?”

He shakes his head to clear it. “Yeah, ‘course, yeah. Why?”

“You have walked past the Metro.”

Oh.

They pivot, make their way back. In the Metro, Enjolras fidgets with a loose thread on his jeans and startles a little closer against Grantaire’s side when a train rattles by on the opposite track. When the train comes on their side, they take it, transfer after a few stops. Enjolras lingers close--the car is crowded, not-quite-packed from the Friday evening crowds, and Enjolras doesn’t- Enjolras doesn’t like crowds, Grantaire knows that, but he’s still surprised when he feels a tentative touch to his wrist. 

He looks down; Enjolras keeps his grip around Grantaire’s wrist for another few moments before he lets go. 

Grantaire can’t help but wish that he hadn’t let go at all.

By the time they get to the bar, Bahorel and Jehan have already amassed enough glasses for Grantaire to know that it’s going to be _that_ kind of night. The others seem to be taking it slow, or, at least, slower--Feuilly is cradling a beer, Joly is sipping on a drink that looks suspiciously like a Shirley Temple, Bossuet and Courfeyrac seems to have taken a somewhat more reasonable number of shots--but they cheer loudly when they spot Grantaire and Enjolras, so they can’t be all that sober, either. The bar is crowded as they make their way over, the music, loud, and Grantaire is half waiting for Enjolras to turn around, to change his mind, what with the way he tenses under Grantaire’s hand. But he relaxes, somewhat, when Jehan beckons him over, and more so when Feuilly grins and waves, and Grantaire forces himself to relax along with him.

Grantaire lets Bahorel shove a drink into his hands and watches as Jehan gives Enjolras a sloppy kiss on the cheek in greeting and hauls him over to where Feuilly is smiling good-naturedly. 

“So,” says Bahorel, “You brought your boy.”

Grantaire scowls. Enjolras isn’t- “He’s not my boy.”

Bahorel gives him a look. “Have you told him that?” He asks, because he’s a dick.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “I assure you, he has no interest in being my boy.”

“Way to sound normal.” Bossuet slides over, slings an arm over his shoulders. “Why wouldn’t he want to be your boyfriend?”

Across the bar, Jehan hands Enjolras a drink that is dangerously blue and, judging by the face Enjolras pulls when he tries it, dangerously strong. Grantaire grits his teeth and forces himself to trust him, to trust them, to chill the fuck out. It almost works. “He just- It’s fine.”

Joly makes a sympathetic sound, whacks at Grantaire’s ankle with his cane. “Aw,” he says, ignoring Grantaire’s hiss of pain, “Do you want to get zonked with us?”

“Don’t say ‘zonked’,” Grantaire says absently. Enjolras has swapped drinks with Jehan--this one is orange.

“Aw,” he says, “Do you want to get hammered?” 

Grantaire sighs. “Yeah.” He forces himself to tear his eyes away from the way that Enjolras looks when he’s laughing. “Let’s get hammered.”

He doesn’t get hammered, not really, because he’s trying to be, like, responsible, but by the time they’ve made their way to the second bar and Enjolras has made his way back to Grantaire to sit down with a heavy thud at his side, it’s pretty clear that Enjolras did not make the same decision.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and he is breathless and painfully genuine. “Grantaire, I have missed you so.”

Grantaire can’t help the smile that pulls at his cheeks, can’t help but to ruffle Enjolras’s hair, where it’s come loose from its ponytail. “Yeah?”

He nods, eyes wide. “Yes.” He leans into the touch, lets Grantaire wrangle him so that he’s leaning his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, instead of the palm of his hand; he smells like alcohol and something sweeter than Grantaire would drink.

(Grantaire loves him.)

He brushes away the curls from out of Enjolras’s eyes, rubs away the spot of Jehan’s glitter that’s made its way to Enjolras’s cheek. His eyes flutter closed under Grantaire’s ministrations. “What did Jehan give you?” He asks, only half joking. 

Enjolras shrugs. “Apparently, ‘twas an avenue for- for cultural enrichment.” His words slur, a little, at the edges; he is soft and pliable, where he rests. “I believe I have learned the mixed beverages of preference of a great deal of our friends.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Grantaire looks around the bar--Feuilly and Bahorel are sat close to one another, ankles kicked together; Joly and Bossuet are peering down at the screen of Joly’s phone; Courfeyrac and Jehan are talking with someone Grantaire has never seen before in his life. 

Enjolras takes a sip of his drink, and Grantaire hadn’t even realized that he still had one on him, but- 

“What are you drinking?” Grantaire peers down at it--it’s red, sweet-smelling. One of Jehan’s favorites, by all rights.

He shrugs, holds the glass out. 

Grantaire catches the straw, takes a tentative sip, and- “Oh, don’t drink that, Enj,” he sighs. It is sickly sweet and much, much stronger than anything Enjolras needs to be drinking, right now, considering the fact that he’s half-asleep on Grantaire’s shoulder already.

Enjolras takes it back, anyways. “But I rather like it,” he says, and Grantaire can’t really do much against the way he looks at him.

“Yeah, but you’re wasted.”

“I have enjoyed myself,” Enjolras offers. He takes Grantaire’s hand, plays with his fingers absently. 

Grantaire watches him weave their fingers together. “Good,” he says.

“Did you?”

He blinks, tears his gaze from their hands. “Hm?”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Grantaire, for a moment, can’t even think of anything other than the way Enjolras’s hand feels in his own. “Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, it was- it was nice.”

Enjolras takes another sip of his drink, then pauses. “There is music,” he says. 

There is, Grantaire realizes--something cheesy and synth-y, all 80s. He hums an agreement, taps his fingers to the beat against Enjolras’s. Enjolras lets him, taps back. It’s nice.

And then Enjolras says, “We should dance. You should dance with me,” and-

What.

What.

“What?”

“You should dance with me,” Enjolras says, again, and yeah, that’s what Grantaire thought he’d said, but he doesn’t _understand_ , because Enjolras doesn’t even know this fucking song, why would he want to dance, why would he want to dance with _Grantaire_ , why- “Come, now, Grantaire, you-” He rises to his feet, then, keeps his grasp on Grantaire’s hand, and-

And stumbles hard, spilling his drink across the floor and only barely recovering the glass before it drops, and Grantaire rises to his feet in just enough time to haul him up again, to keep him from falling over completely.

Oh, Christ.

“Oh, Christ, Enj,” he murmurs, and when he’s pried the empty glass from Enjolras’s fingers, he pulls him up again and hauls his arm around his shoulders. “Christ, okay, c’mere, just-” He wrangles Enjolras into leaning against him near-fully and checks the time on his phone--just past one in the morning. Not so late that they can’t take the Metro, not if they walk fast.

Courfeyrac appears by Grantaire’s side to take the glass off his hands, gives Enjolras a pat on the shoulder. “You guys look like you might be leaving.”

Enjolras lifts his head from Grantaire’s shoulder. “Not so!”

“Yeah, we definitely are.” He hefts Enjolras up a little more. “Call you tomorrow?”

He nods, then says something in Occitan to Enjolras, fond and teasing. Grantaire can’t quite catch it, never really can, but he thinks he hears something about courage--maybe a preemptive warning about a hangover, or something. He gets a retort in return, and Grantaire is sure that whatever it is would be more effective if Enjolras wasn’t hanging off of Grantaire like a dead weight. 

And speaking of-

“Okay, come on, let’s go home,” Grantaire says, because he’s got the feeling that if he doesn’t get Enjolras out the door now, they'll never leave. 

“But I was speaking with Feuilly!”

Grantaire glances over to where Feuilly sits at Bahorel’s side. That, in itself, is not unusual in the slightest, but there’s something serious and soft painted across the both of their faces, and that’s a little rarer, and Grantaire has known Bahorel long enough to know how he would look at Feuilly, if he was allowed, and- “You can see him tomorrow. Let’s just- Let’s go home.”

They leave.

Enjolras makes it a whole block and a half before he trips on a loose cobblestone and nearly smashes his face in. Grantaire picks him up off the street, looks him over. He’s skinned his knee, and he stands unsteady when Grantaire tries to let him go.

“I’ve told you,” slurs Enjolras, “I hold my wine poorly.” 

“Yeah, you hold your blue curaçao poorly, too,” Grantaire adds. He takes a glance around the road--it’s empty enough, but they’re still farther from the Metro than he’d like. He sighs. This would be easier if he was actually capable of being mad at Enjolras.

Enjolras slumps, a little. “I- I apologize for my comportement,” he says, and the worst part is the fact that he actually sounds regretful. “I did not intend to- to-” His voice breaks, just slightly, and Grantaire _so_ does not want to deal with a tearful Romantic era revolutionary, right now.

“It’s cool, it’s cool,” he blurts out. “It’s fine, it’s cool, it’s just- I don’t want to miss the last trains. You’re alright.”

He looks up at Grantaire with big, misty eyes. (Fuck.)

“Okay, c’mon, let’s go.”

Enjolras does not go. Rather, he stands there in the street like a half-deflated balloon. 

Christ.

“You know what, just-” Fuck, Grantaire will just carry him, then. He can’t be very heavy--he’s built too much like a bird to have any real weight behind him. “Just- Hop up. I’ll carry you.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ll carry you, c’mon.” He turns a little, beckons, and, thank God, Enjolras obliges.

It takes longer for Grantaire to actually get Enjolras hoisted up on his back, piggy-back style, than it does for him to realize that this is a terrible idea. 

“You are very kind, Grantaire,” Enjolras slurs, and Grantaire grits his teeth. He can feel Enjolras’s nose pressed to the back of his neck--the hair at his nape rustles when he breathes. “You are the kindest man that I know.”

Grantaire flushes, hot and ruddy. He wonders, absently, if Enjolras can feel it. “I’m not kind. I’m very mean,” he says, grits out, because he needs to say something, because he _isn’t_.

Enjolras hiccups. “You are my very favorite.”

He nearly drops Enjolras, only barely recovers in time. Christ, but his heart is pounding. Enjolras can’t- he can’t- “Don’t say shit like that, Enj.” He doesn’t really think that he’ll be able to take it if he does, in any case. Not when Enjolras is drunk. Not when Enjolras sounds so genuine but means none of it at all. 

“I say what I like.”

“Still.”

“You know,” Enjolras says, because apparently, the one time he can’t shut up is the one time Grantaire wants him to, “For so much of my life, I have been impassioned only by the fight for-” he hiccups- “liberty, and for my country, and-” another hiccup- “I do not regret this, of course, but-”

Grantaire sets Enjolras down when they reach the stairs. “C’mon, you gotta walk. I’ll drop you if I have to carry you down the stairs.”

“But I cannot help but to feel,” he goes unsteadily down the stairs as Grantaire prods him along, “as though- as though there is nothing-” he hiccups- “left of that, now.”

God, sometimes the shit Enjolras says hurts like a knife to the gut. He swallows. “Yeah?”

Enjolras nods. Grantaire pushes him through the turnstile. “I only mean to say- I recognize nothing of this country, now. Everyone that I knew, everyone that I-” he hiccups- “fought for, they are gone, as are anyone who may have remembered them. What would I even dedicate myself to?”

His throat sticks. “You could still-” Still _what_ , he doesn’t quite know. Sacrifice himself for the people? Write essays? Spend his time working thanklessly for people who will never truly appreciate-

“What for? What is left?” He stumbles; Grantaire catches him. 

And-

Fuck, what does Grantaire know about sacrifice? About dedication? About fucking passion, aside from the thrumming in his gut he felt when he brought Enjolras into the light of his apartment, that he feels when Enjolras flashes him an awkward smile? He scrubs a hand over his face. God, sometimes he feels so fucking useless he could cry. Or scream, or something, especially when Enjolras looks up at him from the bench that he’s sat down heavily upon with wide, wide eyes.

He looks up at the clock above the tracks--the train won’t come for another six minutes.

Enjolras leans his head back against the tile wall of the station and shuts his eyes. He hiccups.

Grantaire sits down beside him. A rat the size of a small dog scurries across the tracks.

Enjolras lays his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Grantaire,” he says.

He hums.

“Thank you for buying for me the pens.”

Grantaire brushes the hair out of Enjolras’s eyes for the thousandth time. “You’re welcome,” he manages. Enjolras’s skin is golden, even in the sickly light of the station, and Grantaire lets his hand rest, just for a moment, along the curve of his cheek. His head is spinning a little, too, just the same as Enjolras.

When he pulls his hand away, lets it drop to his lap, he wishes he had never done it, that he had let it rest there forever.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, again, and he cracks his eyes open.

“Yeah?”

He hiccups. “You know, I- I care for you very deeply.”

His breath catches in his throat. God, he wishes Enjolras would quit saying stuff like that. But he says nothing, because- because Enjolras isn’t being _weird_ about it, it’s not fault that Grantaire’s stupid fucking heart reaches for meaning in everything when there’s so obviously nothing there. It’s not his fault that he’s from a different time, that he’s used to expressing shit in a way that Grantaire doesn’t understand. “Thanks.”

He opens his eyes a little more. “I mean it,” he says, which hurts more. “I-” he hiccups again- “ _do_. Much deeper than I should. Very much deeper, I-”

Grantaire stands up, heart pounding. “I’m gonna get you a bottle of water from the vending machine.”

“Grantaire-”

“Just-” He takes a breath. “Just- Stay there.” He needs- He needs a fucking break. He can’t deal with this, and Enjolras is saying shit he doesn’t mean, and--he digs through his pocket and finds a few Euros, walks over to the machine--he needs-

He draws in a deep breath. Christ.

Christ.

He punches the code in for water slowly, feeds the coins in one at a time. Enjolras just needs some water. He’s too drunk, and he isn’t thinking straight, and he needs some fucking water. 

Everything is fine.

The bottle of water rattles its way through the machine and into the slot. Grantaire takes it, opens it as he brings it back to Enjolras. “Drink,” he says, a little harsher than he means to.

Enjolras has a few sips and only spills a little down the front of his shirt. “You think me foolish.”

“‘Course not.”

“Grantaire-”

“Drink some more.”

He takes a sip, hiccups, and spills a little down his shirt. “It’s just- This is all so new to me.” He picks at the wrapper on the water bottle. 

Which, fuck, if Grantaire doesn’t know. Fuck, if he isn’t aware of the fact that the only reason Enjolras is here is because of some great cosmic error that had the gall to strip him, brilliant and sharp and charming and terrifying, from everything he’s ever known, only to be shoved off on Grantaire on off-chance. Fuck, if he-

“It is so new to- to feel safe, for once, do you know?” He says, but- 

That isn’t what Grantaire had thought they were talking about.

He continues, like he isn’t scraping the inside of Grantaire’s chest bare. “I feel so very-” he hiccups- “safe with you, Grantaire. As though I do not need to concern myself with- with _pretentions_ , and caution, and appearances, for I- I do trust you so, and-” he meets Grantaire’s gaze fully, and it burns like sun on sunburn, like warmth from the fire against skin brought too quickly in from the cold. 

The train rattles, somewhere deep in the tunnel.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Have you ever- Have you ever felt such sentiments before?”

For once in Grantaire’s life, the train arrives on time, coming to a halt with a squeal of brakes. “Come on,” he says. His voice breaks. “Come on, train’s here. Stand up.”

Enjolras is still fucking looking at him. 

Grantaire feels, oddly, as though he might cry. “Enj, come on, we’re gonna miss the train.”

He lets Grantaire pull him to his feet, lets Grantaire haul him onto the Metro a few moments before the doors close, lets Grantaire sit him down in a seat.

Enjolras bites his lip, picks at the label of the water bottle again. Bits of paper flutter down to the floor of the car. “I am grateful, though,” he says, once they’re moving, as pointedly as anyone who’s had as many drinks as he has can possibly be.

“Yeah?”

He nods. “You mean so very much to me,” he says, and Grantaire grits his teeth, because he doesn’t mean it like that, of course he doesn’t, but- but he doesn’t need to say it, not when he must know, he _must_ \- “And I think that you must surely be the kindest man in the whole world, for everything that you have done for me, and-” he swallows. “And you are handsome, and strong, and warm, and you bought me pens and you are a wonderful artist and your hands are very warm and broad and calloused and-”

“Shut up,” Grantaire hisses, before he can stop himself. 

Enjolras makes a choked noise, like there’s something caught in his throat. His eyes are very, very wide.

Shit.

“Shit, Enjolras, I didn’t-” he did, is the problem- “There’s other people in the car, you can’t just-” _you can’t just say shit like that to me, shit you don’t mean_ , he wants to say- “Just- Don’t do this now. Please.”

“Oh,” he says, softly. 

They are both silent for a long time. 

Grantaire wants to cry. 

“But I like you,” Enjolras says, at last, voice barely louder than the wheels on the track.

“Yeah.” He is very proud of the way his voice doesn’t break over the word.

“May I lean my head upon your shoulder?” he asks, and he’s never had to ask that before, but then again, Grantaire’s never been such a dickhead before, either.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

Enjolras leans his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. His hair smells like the honey conditioner Courfeyrac gave him.

“May I hold your hand?” he asks.

Grantaire chokes back a sob and hopes that Enjolras is either too drunk to notice or too drunk to remember. “Yeah.”

After they get to their stop; after Grantaire drags a stumbling Enjolras through the station; after they walk home, Enjolras saying those painfully genuine things all the way; after Grantaire has locked the door and put Enjolras into bed and changed into his pajamas; after he has called Bahorel in a panic five times, to no answer, and texted him another six--he turns off the light and stares up at the ceiling in the dark and wonders what the fuck is going on. 

He doesn’t sleep that night.

The next day, Enjolras, only somewhat worse for wear, greets him politely at breakfast and asks him why forks can’t go in the microwave and where blue dye comes from and writes it all down in his notebook with the pen Grantaire bought him and then announces that he’s going to Jehan’s for the day. 

Grantaire watches him leave and wonders whether he remembers holding his hand on the Metro.

Probably not.

He calls Bahorel. 

Bahorel, thank God, picks up on the fourth ring. Or- “Grantaire?” Feuilly mumbles, voice cracked from sleep, on the other side of the line, and Grantaire frowns, checks the contact. 

“Feuilly? Why do you have Baz’s phone?”

“Why do I have-” There is a long pause, and then a muffled bit of Polish that Grantaire has heard enough times to recognize as a curse.

“Feuilly?”

There is more cursing in the background, then- “R?” Bahorel sounds worse than Feuilly did, half-asleep and voice rubbed raw.

“Why is Feuilly at your place?”

“Um.” There is another weighty silence.

Grantaire checks the time. “Why are you awake, anyways? I know you don’t get up before eleven, and it’s-” 

Wait.

Wait.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “Oh my God, you fucked Feuilly.”

Bahorel makes an aborted noise in the back of his throat. “Um.”

“Oh my God, Feuilly fucked _you_ , didn’t he? Didn’t he?”

“Maybe,” he says, and Grantaire can hear the smile in his voice. “We, um. We went on a date.”

“What, this morning?” Bahorel doesn’t do morning activities.

“Last night. After you guys left.” He can hear Feuilly say something in the background, can hear Bahorel shush him, can hear the two of them tussle briefly.

Grantaire can’t help but smile a little. “Didn’t know that there were date venues open at two in the morning.”

“There are if you count kebab shops,” Feuilly says--he must have managed to turn the speakerphone on. “Which-”

“You said you thought it was a nice date!” There’s a tinge of hurt in Bahorel’s voice--though Grantaire supposes that makes sense, considering how long he’s been pining to Grantaire over the guy. “You said you liked it!”

Feuilly hums. “I liked it,” he says, soft. “I like kebabs, anyways.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure he can hear them kiss over the phone. Saps. “Okay!” he says, when they’ve been quiet for just a hair too long for his liking. “Happy for you, not why I called.”

“Sorry,” says Bahorel, though he doesn’t sound very sorry. “What’s up? How’s Enjolras? Hungover?”

He-

Well, fuck, he doesn’t really know how Enjolras is, does he? Doesn’t know if he’s hungover, doesn’t know if he remembers anything, doesn’t know what the fuck happened, last night, and his heart pounds just fucking _thinking_ about it--about the press of Enjolras’s nose to the back of his neck, about Enjolras’s hand in his own, about the way he’d called him fucking- fucking _kind_ , and _handsome_ , and _warm_ , and-

“You know what?” he chokes out. “Doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep.”

Bahorel grumbles something rude under his breath. Feuilly ends the call.

Grantaire buries his face in his hands.

Life goes on.

Combeferre comes over a few days later with bánh mì and wine, and they sit around the table for dinner as Enjolras pores over the newspaper. 

“So,” Grantaire takes a bite of his sandwich, “Baz and Feuilly.”

“Baz and Feuilly,” Combeferre’s watching Enjolras--which is odd, because Grantaire knows why _he’s_ watching Enjolras, but he’s got his own reasons, after all.

Enjolras turns the page of the paper. “Not that I would know,” he says, as he reads, “but it seemed rather inevitable, to me. I’ve not spoken to Bahorel very intimately, but I have done so with Feuilly, and-”

Combeferre sets his glass down heavily enough that Grantaire fears for the stem. Enjolras looks up with a start. “I can’t take it anymore,” he blurts out, as he stands. “I- Seriously, I can’t.”

Enjolras worries at his lip. “Combeferre-” he tries, and his eyes are wide enough that Grantaire kind of wants to yell at Combeferre for scaring him, if it weren’t for the fact that that would definitely make things worse. 

Combeferre takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I just. Don’t eat my sandwich, I’ll be back in 20.” And then he leaves, and leaves Enjolras looking to Grantaire like he has any answers at all. 

He’s back with two minutes to spare and a bag from the pharmacy under his arm. He empties it out with a clatter on the table in front of Enjolras--it’s-

Reading glasses, several pairs of them.

Enjolras looks about as confused as Grantaire feels. “You’ve brought me… spectacles?”

Combeferre nods, starts arranging them in a line.

“But-” Enjolras frowns. “I do not need spectacles. I can shoot perfectly well,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to say. Grantaire elects to ignore it for now.

“You read like my dad. He’s 59.”

And-

And, to be fair, as someone who has met Combeferre’s dad, Grantaire can say that there are some similarities. 

Enjolras scoffs. “Do not be ridiculous. I read perfectly fine. I have been reading for two centuries without complaint.”

Grantaire doesn’t really think- “I don’t really think that’s how-”

Enjolras cuts him off. “I do not need spectacles. You needn’t concern yourself.”

“You do.” Combeferre doesn’t seem particularly inclined to _not concern himself._

“Truly, I do not, I-”

Combeferre cuts him off by shoving a pair of glasses onto Enjolras’s face. Enjolras-

Enjolras blanches, then blinks, then looks down at the newspaper, and- “Oh,” he says, voice a far cry from the indignant tone he’d affected. “Oh, actually-” He opens the newspaper, again, reads for a moment, then looks back up at Combeferre. “Oh.”

Combeferre smiles. “Yeah?”

“I was not aware that-” he manages a sheepish smile in return. “Thank you.”

Grantaire eats his sandwich as Enjolras tries on the other pairs and does not think about holding Enjolras’s hand. It almost works, up until-

“Grantaire!” He jolts back to attention, jolts back to Enjolras, sitting across the table from him with a pair of glasses, round at the edges and made in warm brown plastic, perched on his nose. “What do you think? Do I look well in these?”

He looks like a fucking dork. On the other hand, Grantaire is pretty sure that he has never, ever loved anyone more, so- “Yeah, you-” he clears his throat. His heart stutters in his chest. “You look fine.”

Enjolras nods. “Then I shall keep them.”

Combeferre gathers up the other pairs, puts them back in the bag with the receipt. 

Grantaire hazards another glance over at Enjolras and gets the horrible feeling that his life is about to get a lot harder.

Things go to shit on a Sunday night.

They’re watching a documentary--or, rather, Grantaire is watching a documentary, and Enjolras is dozing on his shoulder, his reading glasses hanging loose on the beaded chain that Jehan had given him after the tenth time he misplaced them. His feet are pulled up onto the cushions; his knee still covered in band-aids from the time he scraped it, on the way home from the bar. He’s sunken--more relaxed than Grantaire could have ever imagined, two months ago--under the heavy weight of Grantaire’s arm around his shoulders, and he is warm, and he is soft to the touch, and Grantaire loves him.

Enjolras makes a snuffling sound, nestles a little closer to Grantaire’s chest, and-

He grits his teeth. This is fine. This is _fine_ . Enjolras trusts him. This is a good thing. Grantaire is also one of the only people that Enjolras _does_ trust, which is… not ideal, but also fine, so long as he doesn’t do anything stupid and fuck it all up. And he’s getting better at that, he really is--he’s getting better at remembering that Enjolras is from a different world, that he needs the comfort; he’s getting better at not reading too much into it.

(It’s hard, though--hard, especially, when he links arms with Grantaire on the street; hard, especially when he falls asleep, against him in the middle of a documentary, and-)

Yeah.

Enjolras’s curls have fallen in front of his eyes, again. Grantaire brushes them aside, tucks them behind his ear, lets himself take comfort that this, at least, is allowed. This has always been allowed, from that first night, when he’d washed the blood from the gold and scrubbed his face of grime in his kitchen. The scar on his forehead is still there, pale pink and just a bit too wicked for Grantaire’s heart to take. He wonders if Enjolras minds, wonders if Enjolras thinks about it, wonders if Enjolras thinks about that first night, when Grantaire had found him bloodied and shaking and stunning, even in the dark of the evening, and-

And Enjolras probably doesn’t like to, which makes sense. Obviously. Fuck, Grantaire doesn’t even know how much of it he _can_ remember, what with the vacant look in his eyes and the concussion and the shock of it all. But- 

But fuck, Grantaire can’t even remember a time _before_ Enjolras stumbled into his life. Can’t imagine living alone again, can’t imagine having breakfast with nobody to talk to, can’t imagine having nothing to fill up the space in his chest that must have been- must have been empty before, or something, because it’s full to the brim now and it is still not enough, and he can’t help but to hold Enjolras a little closer, to brush his fingertips, gentle as anything, against the ridge of scar tissue beneath his hairline.

It’s a mistake, he realizes, just a moment too late--Enjolras stirs, opens his eyes. “Grantaire,” he says, and there is something soft in his voice that Grantaire doesn’t quite recognize, and that he knows better than anything else.

His heart is pounding, hammering. “Hey,” he chokes out. “Good nap?”

And Enjolras nods, and leans in, and kisses him on the lips--brief, soft. Soft enough that Grantaire could ignore it, if he wanted to, if he could, but-

He stumbles off of the couch, pushes Enjolras off of him. He can’t- He can’t- “I can’t-” He can’t fucking take advantage of him, like this, not when he thinks that he can fucking _trust_ Grantaire, Christ, God, he-

He-

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, and he looks fucking confused, and this isn’t even his fault, he doesn’t deserve this, it’s not his fault that Grantaire doesn’t know how to keep his fucking heart under his own ribs, and-

“We need to talk,” Grantaire gasps out. “Things-” he scrapes a hand through his hair. “Things have- have _changed_ , since your time, and I get that, and it’s cool, I don’t- I don’t mind, but I need you to know that-” he breaks off. Something sticks in his throat.

Enjolras watches him, fucking _patiently_ . Fucking _concerned_.

He draws in a deep, shaking breath. He could- he could back out. He could keep this, he could- “The implications of. Of a lot of things have changed, I’m taking advantage of that and I know you don’t mean anything by it and I know I- I shouldn’t be seeing fucking any of this as romantic, ‘cause you’re my _friend_ , but I can’t-” The breath is sharper in his lungs, now, and it stings like salt. “I can’t help it, and I’m _sorry_ , and I hope we can still be friends if you decide to move in with someone else, and-” his voice breaks. His eyes are burning, and he doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to see Enjolras-

“Grantaire.” He looks up. Enjolras is standing beside him. “I am twenty-six years old.”

That doesn’t- That doesn’t mean anything, that- “What?” he manages.

“I am twenty-six years old,” he says again, and he keeps his voice low, and Grantaire fucking loves him, and he can’t really breathe. “Do you truly think that I was giving you a platonic kiss on the lips?” There’s a tinge of humor to it, but Grantaire doesn’t get what’s so fucking funny.

“Fucking _maybe_ ,” he bites out. 

The corner of Enjolras’s mouth twitches. “I assure you, I was not.”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “You don’t know what you’re fucking saying-”

“Do not presume to think that I do not know my own mind.” The warmth is gone. Grantaire misses it, mourns it, relishes in its absence. “I am not a fool, do not treat me as one.”

“‘M not.” God, he doesn’t- he doesn’t- “It’s just-” he doesn’t fucking _know_ what it is, is the problem, doesn’t know why Enjolras would kiss him, doesn’t why he’s insisting on it now, except for- “Oh,” he hears himself say, and it hurts.

Enjolras purses his lips. He looks- angry, maybe. “Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s- It’s cool, it’s fine, it’s-” He lets out a hysterical laugh. “You’re fucking attached, is all. Like a fucking duckling. It’s- It’s cool, I’ll forget about it, I won’t mention it, don’t worry about it, it’s-” he draws in a gasping breath. “It’s not your fault.” He tries for a reassuring smile. He’s pretty sure he fails.

“Do not patronize me.” It is sharp, severe, sudden. Grantaire feels like he’s been slapped. He moves to protest, but Enjolras continues, presses on. “There are many things which I do not know, and I still do not understand this world of yours, and I am aware of this. But I am a man, not a child, and certainly not a duckling, toddling after the first being it sees.” He grits his jaw; there is a tension to his shoulders, his hands. “I have experienced the world in a way which you cannot even comprehend, I have- I have done things which you should be _very_ fucking grateful not to have to do yourself, I-” There is a hand to Grantaire’s chest, for just a split second, and then it is gone. “I know my mind much more intimately than you yours, sir, by necessity. Do you truly think that I am incapable of judging this?”

“I-” He wills himself to speak, wills himself to tear his gaze from the cold fury in Enjolras’s eyes, and for a moment, he sees the painting, sees _Themis at the Barricades_ in his own sitting room, and he chokes. “Enj, I just- You can’t-”

“I am going to take a moment,” Enjolras says, “to collect my thoughts. Excuse me.” He stalks past Grantaire to his bedroom, shuts the door behind him with a _click_ that aches along with the ache in Grantaire’s ribs.

Grantaire stumbles back to sit heavily down on the couch. 

Christ.

Christ.

He doesn’t-

He buries his face in his hands, he doesn’t- he doesn’t _understand_ , doesn’t understand what the fuck Enjolras is talking about, doesn’t understand why he’s such a fucking dumbass, doesn’t understand why he didn’t fucking _say_ anything, and-

It doesn’t make _sense_ . Enjolras can’t like him. He can’t. Grantaire isn’t someone people like. Grantaire is someone people fuck, someone people stay for breakfast for, but that’s all. Grantaire is someone people _consider_ , when it’s late enough and the last drink is being called. Grantaire _certainly_ isn’t someone that people like _Enjolras_ \--stunning, brilliant, brave, wonderful men who could have anyone, anything--likes. Only-

(Only, and he digs his fingernails into his thighs for daring to think it, it- it makes sense, doesn’t it? Just a few things, here and there--the pens, that night on the Metro, the way he fucking _looks_ at him, he-)

He doesn’t _know_. 

Maybe, he thinks, maybe- Maybe Enjolras just wants that. Wants a fuck. Wants- 

Only, Enjolras doesn’t take lovers, he said that, and Grantaire doesn’t understand, and-

The bedroom door opens. Grantaire has no idea how long it’s been.

Enjolras has his shoes on, has a bag slung over his shoulder, and Grantaire feels very, very cold.

He could-

He could fix this, maybe, he could-

He-

“I shall be at Combeferre’s apartment,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire looks up helplessly. He needs to say something, needs to _fix_ this. The words don’t come out. Enjolras fidgets with the strap of his bag. “You may text at me when you have reached a decision, one way or another, but I will not-” Grantaire can see him swallow, can see the bob of his throat, lit up by evening light. “I will not stay here and listen to you speak down to me simply because you do not wish to address your own insecurities.”

Grantaire loves him, Grantaire loves him.

There is a pause, then--between where the words hang in the air and when Enjolras moves to open the door, and Grantaire knows Enjolras well enough to know that it is purposeful.

Grantaire means to take it. He cannot seem to bring any words to mind, nothing but _I love you, I love you, I-_ He-

Enjolras opens the door, huffs a sigh. Grantaire feels like fucking screaming, feels like burying his face in Enjolras’s hair, feels the echo of lips against his own. 

He-

“Text me when you get there safe?” He says, instead of anything useful, instead of _I’m sorry_ , instead of _stay_. 

Enjolras says nothing and shuts the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahaha u didn't think that i was gonna make it THAT easy, did u?
> 
> everyone congratulate baz and feuilly it's been a long time coming and now they can both finally get laid (by each other)
> 
> very proud to show u all the full extent of grantaire's emotional incompetence hope u enjoy :^) he is not good at this :^)
> 
> sorry about the cliffhanger i simply Could Not Resist


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is a fool. 
> 
> Grantaire is a coward and a liar and a hypocrite and-
> 
> “Grantaire,” Enjolras announces as he pushes through the door to Combeferre’s apartment, sits down heavily upon the couch, “is a fool.” To say it is to under-state it, he- he is still fuming over it--smoldering, despite the time it had taken to take the Metro over, but there is nothing more that he can say without letting his voice break, without giving in and letting himself bury his face in his hands and sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check end notes for content warning

Grantaire is a fool. 

Grantaire is a coward and a liar and a hypocrite and-

“Grantaire,” Enjolras announces as he pushes through the door to Combeferre’s apartment, sits down heavily upon the couch, “is a fool.” To say it is to under-state it, he- he is still fuming over it--smoldering, despite the time it had taken to take the Metro over, but there is nothing more that he can say without letting his voice break, without giving in and letting himself bury his face in his hands and sob.

Combeferre makes an amused sound in the back of his throat. Enjolras scowls. 

“I do not understand what is so very humorous about the situation,” he snaps.

Combeferre does not even blink, does not do anything but to sit down beside him on the sofa and ruffle his hair. “Well, it’s hardly news. That’s just the way he is. You know that.”

He scowls a bit harder. “And yet I find myself surprised.”

His smile, indulgent and kind, wavers. “What-”

“I simply-” he blurts out, before he forces himself to breathe, to keep his voice steady enough not to rub at his throat and tear up memories of gunpowder and smoke and iron, and- “I would have preferred, in all honesty, to have been rejected outright, rather than- than-” he flounders, struggles for the words. “He is a  _ fool _ , and a coward, and who is he to imply that I do not know what-” he breaks off. His eyes sting.

Combeferre’s hand stills, where it had been tracing circles on the back of Enjolras’s neck. “You asked him out.” It is not a question.

Enjolras does not know what that means, cannot be bothered to recall, but- “It is not so much that I  _ asked _ ,” he grits out. “But-” He scrubs a hand over his eyes, groans. Perhaps  _ he _ is the fool, to have acted so soon. Perhaps he is the fool, for having thought that Grantaire might- might-

Might-

Combeferre waits.

He swallows. “I kissed him,” he says, as though it is not something momentous, as though it is something that he will ever recover from. “And he told me that I knew not what I was feeling, that I could not feel in such a way for him. That it was nothing but simple- simple  _ attachment _ , as though I do not know my own mind, he- he is a  _ fool _ , Combeferre, I-” he breaks off, presses back a sob.

“Christ,” says Combeferre. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Enjolras says, because the agreement is comforting, because he is- he is angry, and there is something bruised and hot and aching beneath his ribs, and his breath comes shaky and shallow, and it hurts.

“He really-”

“Yes.”

Combeferre draws in a breath. The hand that had been resting at the nape of his neck moves to pull him in close, to nestle him against Combeferre’s shoulder. “Grantaire,” he mutters, and that sounds like a curse, itself alone.

Enjolras shuts his eyes. “And-” It comes out without his intention, but Combeferre never minds, anyways- “And need I remind you, the only reason that I dared make such advances at all is due to the fact that I was assured that Grantaire would  _ not _ react poorly, and yet-” Combeferre  _ tsks _ sympathetically. “And yet he has the gall to- to imply that  _ I _ am the fool, when  _ he  _ is the fool, and-”

He cannot continue. He cannot tell if it is due to the tightness in his throat or the hot anger in his gut.

“So you’re avoiding him.” Again, not a question. Combeferre is very, very good at not asking questions and wheedling an answer out, regardless.

“And so,” Enjolras says, because he is not ashamed, he  _ isn’t _ , not when Grantaire is the one to have acted poorly, not when he has done nothing but to be reasonable. “I am avoiding him.”

Combeferre nods. “And how long do you plan on avoiding him for?”

“Well, it is hardly something for which one  _ plans _ ,” he snaps, but then, “Until,” he says, haughtily, once Combeferre has given him a look, “He texts at me to apologize for diminishing my feelings and for speaking down to me.”

He sighs, stands with a ruffle to Enjolras’s hair. “Okay, well, Courf is stopping by in an hour or so to borrow my blender.”

Enjolras does not know what a  _ blender _ is or what it blends. “Fine,” he says. “Perhaps he can explain the reasoning which led him to believe that Grantaire would take kindly to my kissing him. For it was his idea, I will have you know, and-”

Combeferre is giving him another look. He bites his tongue.

“Do you want anything?”

“No,” Enjolras bites out.

It is, evidently, not terribly convincing. Combeferre remains above him, arms crossed.

He slumps. “Perhaps some tea?” he tries, and Combeferre ruffles his hair once more. 

He is lying face down on Combeferre’s sofa when a buzzing sound cuts through the apartment. He is  _ not _ pouting.

He would, perhaps, be pouting even less if Grantaire were to apologize, but he is still not pouting.

The buzzing sound happens again. It is- he searches for the word- the  _ doorbell _ , though it sounds different from Grantaire’s, different from Jehan’s. 

“Enjolras!” Combeferre calls, from the kitchen. “Can you get the door?”

He buries his face in the upholstery. “I am occupied.”

He hears Combeferre swear, set something down, enter the sitting room. “You’re not occupied, you’re pouting.”

“I am not pouting,” he says, for the sake of his dignity, “I am otherwise occupied. I cannot answer the door.”

Combeferre sighs. “Look. I’m sorry that Grantaire’s an idiot. I’m sorry that he was a dick to you. I really hope he apologizes and that you guys figure your shit out. You still don’t get to sulk around my apartment all evening, it’s not healthy.”

“I am not sulking,” he reminds him. “I am simply occupied.” He keeps his face buried in the cushions.

Combeferre answers the door, and there is a moment, just between the creak of the door and when he speaks, that Enjolras wonders if it is not Courfeyrac, but Grantaire, come to visit, come to apologize. It is a foolish hope, he knows this, and yet it is difficult not to hold, and-

“Marius,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras groans. “Hey, what are you-”

“Oh, Courf said he was going to go grab your blender, and I was like, well, I’ll just come with you, so-” he clears his throat. “So I did. Um. So. Hello.”

Enjolras shuts his eyes and wills Marius to go away. It does not work.

“Hey, can we come in?” Courfeyrac, at least, is also at the door, and he greets Enjolras when he enters, before- “Oh, geez, dude, what gives?”

He turns his head to look at Courfeyrac--he stands beside Marius in the doorway, hip cocked. “Grantaire is a fool.”

Courfeyrac sets his bag down at the door. “Oh, yeah?” he asks, says, prompts. Marius follows him in with about as much hesitance as Enjolras would expect. “You kiss him, yet?” He passes him by in favor of the kitchen.

It is a jest, a gentle prod to the ribs, but he is angry, and Grantaire is a  _ fool _ . “Yes,” he snaps.

It is enough to cause Courfeyrac to pause--to linger, halfway to the kitchen. “And he- Oh.” 

He grunts.

There is a clink of bottles in the kitchen. (There is a spray of grapeshot, sharp against brick and cobble and bone.) 

He shuts his eyes.

He opens them, again, to the press of a cold bottle to his cheek. Courfeyrac stands above him, beers in hand, and he nudges Enjolras up into what could be considered, if one were to be particularly generous, a seated position. 

Enjolras takes the proffered beer, but hands it back when he realizes that it is still closed. (Grantaire can open the metal lids on top of bottles, but he- he has never cared to learn how to do so, himself, for he hardly drinks beer without Grantaire around, anyways, and-)

Courfeyrac opens the bottle for him, hands it back, sits down beside him. “So?”

“ _ So _ ,” Enjolras says, and he takes a sip of the beer before he can take the time to realize that beer after tea is more vile than helpful. “So, I only followed your advice, and- and I truly did think that he would- that he would-” he swallows. “That he would want me. That he would- He was  _ looking _ at me, and I thought-” his voice breaks. 

Courfeyrac makes a saddened sound, brings an arm up to wrap about his shoulders like a shawl. “And what, he just-”

“To summarize-” he finds himself picking at the paper on the side of the bottle, wet with condensation and pilling under his fingers- “He as good as told me that- that simply because I was born in a different time, I cannot and do not know what I want and what I feel, as though- as though people did not court one another in 1832, as though this is some-” he hears himself laugh, brief and sharp and burning in his throat, “Some invention of yours, yet another thing that I cannot  _ possibly _ understand, but it is  _ not _ , and I  _ do _ understand, and-”

Marius, from the entryway, chokes. Enjolras had forgotten that he was there; he looks up with a start. “Um,” says Marius, who is watching him now with wide eyes.

He draws in a breath. “Are you well?” he drags himself to ask. 

Marius’s eyes grow, if possible, wider. He looks a bit like a peculiar porcelain doll, though not a particularly well-painted one. “I. I think I made a mistake? Earlier?”

Heavens.

He sighs, slumps fully against Courfeyrac until Courfeyrac relents and permits him to lay his head in his lap. “I am sure that you are fine,” he says, and what he does not add is the fact that if  _ anyone _ ought not be fine, it is  _ him _ , for he has been rejected and spoken down to by his dear friend, and surely whatever Marius has done will be but a momentary embarrassment compared to Enjolras’s current and extremely important emotional turmoil.

“You’re. You’re Enjolras,” says Marius, and Enjolras shuts his eyes. He has a headache, deep and aching behind his eyes and at his neck. 

He grunts.

“Like,  _ Enjolras _ , Enjolras.”

He hates every aspect of his situation. He hates that he is not still with Grantaire on the sofa at home; he hates that Grantaire is a fool; he hates that he knows nothing of romance, nothing of life, nothing of this time, nothing at all; he hates that Marius is  _ talking _ at him. “Yes.” Whatever that means.

“Oh my God.”

He wonders if-

He wonders if Grantaire has texted at him, yet. If he has made his decision. If he has realized that he has been a fool; if he has decided that he wants nothing to do with him, nothing to do with someone who knows nothing of the world he lives in. His phone is in his pocket--he takes it out, presses at the top button until it illuminates, but-

Nothing.

Marius is still speaking. (“ _ -honestly so sorry, I didn’t even know you were- well, obviously, I didn’t know, but- _ ”) Enjolras looks up at Combeferre beseechingly, who is sitting at the table and- and  _ typing _ , he had called it, when Enjolras had asked. When Combeferre does not look up from his machine, he directs his gaze to Courfeyrac, who clucks his tongue and pats Enjolras’s cheek.

Marius continues to apologize. Enjolras takes a sip of his beer and wishes that he had never kissed Grantaire at all. (That is a lie. He takes a sip of his beer and wishes, with all of his heart, that Grantaire loved him, even a little.)

When Courfeyrac and Marius depart with the blender (a machine to make  _ smoothies _ , Enjolras is informed, though that helps little and he cares even less) they leave him with a fierce embrace and another sheepish apology, respectively.

After, he slumps down upon the sofa and buries his face in his hands. “I simply-” he breaks off; he cannot continue.

Combeferre, at last, folds his typing machine in half and sits down beside him on the sofa. “Yeah.”

Enjolras lets Combeferre settle an arm around his shoulders. He- “I simply do not understand why Grantaire-” he swallows. “Why Grantaire is so good to trust me to know my own mind in all other things, and yet sees it as such an impossibility when it- when it is finally something of import.”

“It’s because he’s an idiot, sometimes.” Which is fair, and yet-

“Must he be an idiot  _ now _ ?” he implores, as though Combeferre has any say in the situation. “Could he not have elected to do so on a different day?”

Combeferre nods. “Has he texted you, yet?”

He already knows the answer, already knows that he has not, but he looks, anyways. “No.”

“Okay,” says Combeferre, and he holds Enjolras a little tighter. 

Combeferre has a bedroom for guests, Enjolras knows this, but he also knows that the bed has no sheets and is covered in boxes of books, and so he spends the night at Combeferre’s side. 

“I have to wake up early for work, tomorrow,” he warns, as he hands Enjolras a pair of soft pants that are too long in the leg for him and a shirt that has faded writing on the front. 

“This is fine.” He turns to change into the sleep clothes; Combeferre does the same. “Will- Will you wake me, if you see that Grantaire has apologized by then?”

Combeferre smiles, when Enjolras turns back, but it is tinted with something unhappy. “‘Course.” 

Combeferre truly is a dear friend. “Thank you,” he says, because he means it, because Combeferre has been kind and understanding and a wonderful friend, despite the fact that Enjolras has been exceptionally poor company.

“Go to bed, Enj.”

Enjolras joins him under the covers and stares up at the ceiling. “I simply thought that- Why would he look at me, so, if he did not mean anything by it?”

Combeferre turns off the light, pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

He thinks, for a while. Thinks about Grantaire, and how- surely, he must see Enjolras as inexperienced, for all that he has said--this must be the principal problem, only- “The dilemma is, why would he think that I am inexperienced when he knows the things that I have seen? When he has read my essays? I do not mean to say that I am the most knowledgeable of all men, particularly in the field of love, but surely he knows that I am not a fool. Do you think that he has forgotten? Perhaps-”

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, long-suffering. “I have to get up early. I love you,  _ please _ stop talking.”

And that is fair enough. Combeferre does hard work at the hospital, and from what Enjolras knows of him, his concept of  _ early _ is considerably earlier than his own.

He stops talking and stares up at the ceiling in the dark.

It’s just that-

Who is Grantaire to assume that he has the more experience, anyways? For all Enjolras knows, he could be younger than him, meaning that if anyone would not know their own mind, it would be Grantaire, and-

“Combeferre?” he whispers.

Combeferre grunts. Enjolras accepts it as a response.

“How old is Grantaire?”

Combeferre, beside him, buries his face in the pillow. “Twenty-nine,” he mutters, or something approximate to it. “Go t’sleep.”

Enjolras stares up at the ceiling. So Grantaire is not the younger of the two of them--it still does not mean that he is more knowledgeable. Enjolras knows a great many things,  _ including _ on the subject of romance. (He knows these things in the abstract, of course, but that does not mean that they do not apply.)

(Grantaire, he thinks, without truly meaning to do so, likely has a great deal of…  _ practical _ knowledge on the subject. Bahorel told him, once, of Grantaire having used to do many- many  _ night stands _ , and Enjolras had not known what that had meant, but Jehan had explained it, and-

And likely, he thinks, with a hot rush of blood, Grantaire is thus experienced. Knowledgeable. Someone who would know what to do, how to lay with a man, how to-

He scrubs a hand over his face. He cannot think of this now, not when he has been so coldly rejected. It does not matter how much Grantaire knows if he has no want for Enjolras. And speaking on the subject of rejection-)

“So Grantaire is indeed older than I. But Combeferre, if you-” he jostles Combeferre’s shoulder, for he is not  _ listening _ \- “if you  _ think _ about it, being that I was born in the year of 1806, through technicality, it is  _ I _ who is older by a great deal, and-”

“Oh my God,” Combeferre groans. “Go to  _ sleep _ .”

He lies still and stares up at the ceiling and tries not to think of Grantaire and tries not to think of gunsmoke, either.

Enjolras wakes to a spray of grapeshot and the blast of cannons and a loud, shrill noise in the air, and he is gasping for breath and grasping at the unfamiliar covers that tangle about his legs, and the noise is still there when he opens his eyes and he does not know why he lives, still, and there is a hand on his ankle and he looks about the room, frantic, but he cannot discern the source, cannot discern where he is or what is occurring, and-

The noise stops--the air rings empty, without it, but he feels the jolt of a carbine in hand, and there is a pocket watch ticking, and-

“Enjolras?” Combeferre cracks open an eye, then swears. “Fuck, hey, Enj, what-”

He gasps out a breath, the air too thin and too strange in his lungs, and there is a hand on his ankle, and perhaps it would be better to- to- to-

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, again, and he reaches out to touch his shoulder, and Enjolras holds tight to his arm and forces himself to- to  _ breathe _ , but he cannot- “Enjolras. Breathe.”

He gasps again, chokes, breathes in a lungful of air that stings in his chest and makes his head spin. “Wh-”

“You’re okay,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras breathes and breathes. “You’re okay.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. “What- What was-” Perhaps he dreamed it, the piercing sound, but- but why did he wake, why was it nothing that he had ever heard before, why-

“‘S just my alarm clock.” He reaches over to grab a piece of black plastic from the nightstand, passes it to Enjolras. Enjolras turns it over with shaking hands. It bears an illuminated number on the front--a time, he realizes, belatedly--05:34.“‘M sorry, man, I should’ve warned you, I wasn’t thinking.”

He presses a button. It clicks, clicks again upon release. The clock reads 05:35. He hands it back to Combeferre. “An-” he tries the combination out on an unsteady tongue- “Alarming clock?”

In all fairness to the clock, it  _ was _ quite alarming. He cannot fathom why anyone would like to be awakened in such a manner. What a horrid machine. 

“Alarm clock,” says Combeferre, which does not even seem grammatically correct. (There is a spray of grapeshot against brick, and he shakes his head to clear it. His heart still pounds.) “I have to get ready for work. You should go back to sleep.”

It would be rude to do so--to sleep on in someone else’s apartment while they leave for the day, but- but Enjolras has done many impolite things around Combeferre, and has lain facedown upon his sofa because-

Because Grantaire has yet to apologize, because he is a fool, and- “Has Grantaire- Has Grantaire texted at me, yet?”

Combeferre takes up his phone from the nightstand, makes it light up, frowns. “Not yet,” he says, and he makes to pass the phone to Enjolras, but he does not want it.

Perhaps he will sleep, once more. 

When he wakes, Combeferre is gone, and the sun shines in through the window. (His head aches with the echo of cannonfire and grapeshot, but this is to be expected. The air still reeks of smoke and blood and gunpowder, but this is to be expected. There is a jolt of a carbine under his hand; a hand around his ankle; a pocket watch ticking in his palm, but this is to be expected.)

He showers, dresses in yesterday’s trousers and a shirt pulled from Combeferre’s drawers, drinks the coffee left in the pot and eats one of Combeferre’s bananas and two of his apricots, and sits at the table and thinks.

He cannot stay here. He must return to Grantaire’s apartment, because he cannot-

He cannot  _ stand _ this, cannot stand knowing nothing and being faced with nothing but uncertainty, and if Grantaire tells him off fully, has him live with Combeferre instead, then at the very least, he will know. 

He does not let himself consider the other option, for if he does, he is sure that his heart will shatter like a glass teacup, crushed.

In any case-

In any case, he washes his dishes and gathers his affairs and takes the stairs down and opens the doors to the street and turns and-

And, in a mockery of that first night, walks directly into Grantaire’s chest.

He stumbles, reels from the shock and from the impact, and there are hands, broad and strong, on his shoulders and holding him up before he can fall. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes, and without his say-so, Enjolras’s heart stutters in his chest. Grantaire is- he is wearing a hoodie in the morning chill, the hood pulled up over his hair but not far enough to shield him from the gold of the sun, and he looks  _ tired _ . The shadows beneath his eyes are worn darker than Enjolras has ever seen them. There is still creasing on his cheek from the pillow.

Enjolras clears his throat, and Grantaire’s hands dart away; he misses the warmth dearly the moment they leave. “Grantaire,” he manages. “What-” He breaks off, in the hopes that Grantaire will interrupt him, will answer before he truly knows what question he even means to ask, but he does not, does nothing to fill the space.

Grantaire- flinches, almost, casts a glance about himself as though he expects to be- to be  _ something _ . Followed, perhaps, although that is not quite right. Noticed, maybe. “I-”

He waits. For what, he does not know.

“Enjolras, I-” Grantaire begins, and his voice breaks, and Enjolras is hit, suddenly, with the fact that he may have no idea what is happening. “I- Are you coming back?”

He frowns. “Do you want me to do so?” he asks, because he does not  _ know _ , because Grantaire being here does nothing but to render the situation more complicated still, and- “What are you doing here?”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “I, um-” A passer-by bumps into him as they blow by, swears. Grantaire pulls him off to the side by the arm; Enjolras lets himself be led. “I thought-” he clears his throat. “I got scared you were gonna stay at Ferre’s,” he mumbles, and Enjolras has to strain to hear over the rush of the street. “Cause I’m an idiot. And I’m a dick, and I wanted to, like, apologize, cause I miss you and I know I’m a dick but you said- you said you  _ like _ me, but-” he fades off, mutters something under his breath. 

And that-

That is something to consider--that Grantaire may have torn his own heart asunder, as well. That he may have regrets, aside from the simple fact of having insulted him. He hums. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, pleads, and he makes an aborted motion to- to do  _ something _ . To hold, perhaps. 

He aches. He is  _ tired _ . “Let us go home,” he says, and then, because his chest still stings, “If you are still amenable to that apology.”

Grantaire nods, jerky and too-desperate.

They go home.

Grantaire holds himself too stiffly in the Metro, gaze drifting to Enjolras and then darting away as though he expects for him to bolt each time the doors open. Half of Enjolras wishes to reach out, to reassure him with a hand to the wrist that he shall not leave; half of him wishes, shamefully, to revel in it until he has had his apology. He does neither fully.

They take the elevator up. Enjolras does not swear, though he wants to. He does not reach out to take Grantaire’s arm, though he wants to. 

He sits at the table. Grantaire does not; he paces the carpet, one hand clenched tight in his own curls, the other shifting like it cannot get comfortable--from his hair, to his face, to his wrist, to his chest. 

“Grantaire?” he tries, when Grantaire has done nothing to speak. 

He nods, draws in a shuddering breath, and sits down across from Enjolras at the table. 

Enjolras waits.

“Fuck,” says Grantaire, at last. “Fuck, Enjolras, I’m  _ sorry _ ,” he grits out. 

He waits.

“ _ Enjolras _ ,” he pleads, but Enjolras says nothing, cannot bring himself to speak.

The last of the tension, the last of the will, slumps from Grantaire’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he says, again, “that I didn’t- that I didn’t believe you, it’s just-” He swallows. “It’s just. It’s hard to. ‘Cause you’re- you’re all smart and beautiful and brave, and shit, and I mean, I’m just-” he lets out a laugh, but it is bitter, stinging. “I mean, I’m just- I’m just me. So I don’t really get it, ‘cause you shouldn’t-” he draws in another breath. “Fuck, you shouldn’t want anything to do with me, I-” he breaks off, there, but Enjolras-

Enjolras no longer understands.

Why-

“Why should I not want anything to do with you?” He stumbles over Grantaire’s phrasing, the words put together oddly in his mouth, before he can remind himself of the fact that he had been intending to keep quiet. “You are-” he searches for a word that fits, that feels correct, and comes up with- “charming.” He flushes.

Grantaire, somehow, flushes more, deeper, darker in the cheek. “C’mon, man,” he says, though he sounds somewhat choked, “Don’t say shit like that.”

Enjolras could, at this point, snap--could say that  _ he says what he likes, as a matter of fact, Grantaire _ . He does not. “Why?” he asks, in its stead.

He laughs again, sharp and bitter. Enjolras wishes that he would stop. “Why, he asks,” he mutters to himself. 

Enjolras does not know what is so very ridiculous about the question. “Yes,  _ why _ , I ask,” he shoots back, but it does little but to cause Grantaire to slump, a little, in his seat, to scrub a hand over his cheeks.

“Fuck, Enjolras,” he says, and there is a sadness to his voice that Enjolras remembers only faintly, only recalls in bursts of memory from the Metro at night. “Fuck, I mean, God, look at me, right?”

He lets his gaze rove over warm, brown eyes, bloodshot from a lack of sleep; over cheeks, unshaven; over strong shoulders, beneath the cloth of the hoodie; over hands--warm, calloused, broad, careful. “Yes,” he says, and it does not feel like as much of a confession as it ought. He cannot conjure any shame to mind. “I often do.”

“That’s not what I-” He lets out a breath, slow and shaky. “All I mean to say is- Is, it’s okay, if you want someone to- to be close to. That’s totally, um, natural, and I get it, but I can’t- I can’t be that person for you. ‘Cause I can’t pretend that it wouldn’t mean anything. To me. Um.” He takes a moment to press the heel of his hand to his brow. “Christ.”

Enjolras-

Enjolras runs the words over and over, in his mind. Because- Because that does not make sense, for- for if that is not the problem, if Grantaire’s affections are not the problem, then- “So you-” he cannot believe his own nerve- “So you do hold affections for me.” It is not a question, for Grantaire has already answered it, and yet-

Grantaire lets out a sob.

“Grantaire?” he prods, but Grantaire just shakes his head. “I don’t- I don’t understand, what is the issue? If you hold affections for me, what is the matter?”

“Doesn’t work like that,” he grits out.

At times, Enjolras thinks, senselessly, he detests this new world, detests how little he knows of it, for he does not even know enough to recognize what it is that he could possibly be missing. Although-

Perhaps that is it. Perhaps this is the problem that Grantaire takes with him--that he knows nothing of his world and even less of love, that it is Grantaire who had needed to teach him everything of the prior and who has no desire to spend the time to do the same of the latter. “You do not wish to court me,” he says, and the words stick in his throat, as though they have no desire to make themselves heard. “You think me… Bothersome? Or prudish, perhaps?” Perhaps- Perhaps, if he can say whatever the issue is himself, he will not need to hear it off of Grantaire’s tongue. “I cannot help that I am unfamiliar with this time, but perhaps- I can learn, you know this, I can study it harder and you needn’t be the one to teach me, if this is your issue, I-” He does not know when he took to begging, but it sits sour in his gut. “I can learn, I-”

“That’s not it.” Grantaire cuts him off. “Don’t fucking say that.”

“Then-”

“Fucking-” Grantaire rises to his feet, too fast, and the chair tumbles back with him, slamming to the floor. (There is the jolt of a carbine under his hand, he-) “Fucking  _ fine _ , make me say it, fucking  _ fine _ .” He is pacing, again, hands clenched taught. “You wanna know what it is? Fine. It doesn’t work like that because you are-” his voice cracks; Enjolras watches his throat bob- “You are wonderful, and smart, and so fucking beautiful it hurts, and I am so fucking in love with you, Enjolras, but I am none of those things, and-” he chokes out something that could be a laugh as easily as it could be a sob. “And it’s fine, and I’ve got, like, hobbies, and shit, but that doesn’t mean you want to  _ date _ me. That doesn’t mean you’d ever find me fucking attractive.”

_ Oh _ .

That-

Enjolras believes that he can work with that.

He stands, moves slow until Grantaire is within reach and close enough to touch, eyes wide and full of a strange panic that Enjolras believes that he is beginning to understand. “Grantaire,” he says, pleads. (Grantaire shuts his eyes, lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a whimper.) “Grantaire,” he says, again, sharper, for an instant, because this is important, “I have always found you attractive. I do not know what you mean to imply about yourself, but I-” he clears his throat, feels his cheeks heat- “I have wanted you for a very long time. I have held affections for you for a very long time, I-” He cannot continue, he is not meant for such heartfelt words, but Grantaire-

Grantaire freezes, like a tree-frog in winter; like a hare, caught in the sights of a dog in the moment before a hopeless chase. As though Enjolras will not see him if he does not move. As though Enjolras does not always see him.

Enjolras could reach out, could settle his hand on Grantaire’s cheek--he is allowed, he thinks, and Grantaire will not move, in any case--but he cannot muster the nerve. He reaches lower, instead, and allows his fingers to catch at the curl of Grantaire’s own.

Grantaire does not pull his hand away, does not hold tighter.

He draws in a breath. “Grantaire,” he implores, once more, for he does not know what he will do if Grantaire denies him now, now that he has bared his heart, cracked open his ribs like a man faced with one too many musket-balls for the strength of his bones.

Grantaire lets out a broken sound--a sob, perhaps, and shakes his head, and finally,  _ finally _ , tightens his grasp on Enjolras’s hand.

Something flutters, warm, in Enjolras’s chest. His breath hitches, stutters, and he tugs on Grantaire’s hand, if only to test his grip--it holds fast.

“Fuck,” says Grantaire, “Fuck, you’re- you’re sure? You want this?”

And-

And Enjolras has wanted many things, in his life--things of virtue and of freedom and of doomed constitution and of a horrible, rotten selfishness that he has always striven to avoid, and he has never wanted any of them as much as he wants this, wants Grantaire. “Yes,” he says, simply, for he does not believe himself capable of saying anything more without revealing something deep, something fundamental.

Grantaire laughs, helpless and choked and bright. “You’re fucking crazy,” he says, but he is smiling, and he does not let go of Enjolras’s hand.

“Does-” Enjolras clears his throat, dares to step a little closer. “Does this mean that you will kiss me?” It is forward, and it is presumptuous, but Grantaire has never minded when he is bold, anyways, and he  _ wants _ .

He does not know what he will do if Grantaire denies him, but it does not matter, for Grantaire nods and brings a trembling hand up to cup his cheek, his jaw.

His hand is so warm, so broad; Enjolras cannot help but to lean into the touch, but to let his eyelids flicker at the sheer feeling of being held. Grantaire’s other hand has not released its hold of Enjolras’s own--he is grateful for this, for he does not know if he would be able to-

To-

“Enj,” Grantaire breathes, and then he leans in and kisses him, soft and sweet and wonderful and-

And  _ brief _ .

Enjolras blinks, does his best to clear his head from the way it has taken to spinning. “That- That is all?” He will not pretend as to know much about…  _ relations _ , but even the one kiss he had had before Grantaire, back in his own time--thoughtless and foolish and more nerves than anything--was a  _ bit _ longer than that.

Grantaire frowns. His cheeks are still flushed a ruddy pink; Enjolras cannot help but to reach up, to brush his fingertips over warm skin. “Wh- What do you mean?”

“Well, I only-” He is torn from his focus, for a moment, by the way that Grantaire gazes upon him, by the way that his hand cups his jaw, by the way that his lips had felt against his own. 

“Enj?”

“Apologies, I only-” Grantaire squeezes his hand, strong and warm, but Enjolras will not be distracted, he  _ won’t _ . “I only thought that you would kiss me for longer than that.”

The furrow in Grantaire’s brow remains, but his hand shifts, moves to bury his fingers in the curls at the nape of Enjolras’s neck. His breath hitches in his chest. “Do you… want me to?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to the struggle it takes for Enjolras not to beg, not to let his eyes flutter shut, not to let his knees give out on him as they seem so inclined. “I kinda thought- Cause I don’t want to rush you, you know, cause I thought- Aren’t you guys- Well, like, weren’t you guys big on, um, like… Courtship, or something? Cause I don’t mind, I can court you, you don’t need to-”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras interrupts him, for he is not saying anything of use. “I am neither a nun, nor a schoolboy. I am wanted by the government for high treason. You needn’t concern yourself with my virtue.”

Grantaire makes an odd noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t want to rush you,” he says, again.

“You do not.” He hazards to settle a hand against the curve of Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s pulse thrums rapid against his palm. “Grantaire-”

Grantaire keens, and lists forward, and kisses him. It is so sudden that Enjolras is taken aback, despite himself, despite his want, and he gasps, too loud and too clumsy against Grantaire’s lips, and-

And then Grantaire lets go of his hand to wrap an arm about his waist, and pulls him in tight, and Enjolras lets himself be kissed, deep and warm and hungry, and  _ oh _ , he has never- he has never felt quite like this, quite so  _ wanted _ , quite so  _ wanting _ , and he does his best to kiss back, though he knows not how, and Grantaire only holds him tighter. He-

He has one hand clenched at the back of Grantaire’s hoodie, he realizes, slow, he could- he could- (Grantaire has his fingers in his hair, combing through the curls as he kisses him, and he could  _ melt _ ) He-

He allows himself to release his grip, to press his palm to the cotton, to feel the plane of his back and the warmth through the fabric, and Grantaire is still  _ kissing  _ him, and Enjolras never, never wants for him to stop, and-

Grantaire stops kissing him. The  _ gall.  _ He pulls away by a hair’s breadth, begins to say something, but even that is too much, now that Enjolras knows what it  _ feels _ like. “You okay?” he asks, but Enjolras cannot bear not to kiss him, cannot help himself, fumbling and too eager, for he  _ needs _ , and Grantaire huffs a laugh against his lips and tilts his head, a bit more, by the hand at the nape of his neck, and-

And his back is, somehow, pressed up against the wall. He hears himself moan, and Grantaire laughs again, and Enjolras wishes to hear him laugh like that every single day, and then he is kissing Enjolras deeper, sweeter, with more sheer desperation than Enjolras feels that he would ever truly merit, and Grantaire’s tongue is in his mouth and he is holding him so, so close, and he  _ loves _ him, and-

And Enjolras’s head spins, and his knees give out on him, just like that.

When his head ceases its spinning, Grantaire is holding him up with a hand at the small of his back and running the other through his hair, brushing it back from his face. “Enjolras, hey, hey, um- Enj-” he is saying, which only means that he is not  _ kissing  _ him, why did he  _ stop _ ?

“Wh-” Enjolras cannot  _ think _ . “Why did- Why did you stop?”

Grantaire laughs, breathless and only a little panicked. “‘Cause- ‘Cause I think you just  _ fainted _ , man, you have to tell me if it’s too much, seriously, I- You have to  _ tell  _ me.”

He frowns. He wishes that Grantaire would kiss him again. “But then you would stop,” he says, for it was  _ not _ too much, for he wants so very much that he is fairly certain that nothing Grantaire could ever do could ever qualify as such. Grantaire’s hoodie has come hitched up at the side; he hazards to lay his hand there, to rub his thumb over the strip of bare skin. 

Grantaire swears. “You  _ fainted _ .”

“I am recovered?” he hazards, and Grantaire shuts his eyes, just for a moment. His hand is still in Enjolras’s hair. Enjolras finds he rather likes it. “Grantaire?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, and his voice cracks. 

“Would you kiss me again?”

He glances about himself, looks back to Enjolras, frowns. “It’s not- It’s not too much?” 

Enjolras is, for a moment, distracted by the line of Grantaire’s shoulders, and he wonders- he wonders if he might be able to convince Grantaire to remove his hoodie by the time he kisses him, next.

“Enjolras,” he says--Enjolras wants to be  _ closer _ .

“It is not too much,” he echoes, once he can recall the question.

Grantaire lets out a laugh, breathless and frantic and joyful, and Enjolras wants to hear it forever, and- “Sit down, first,” says Grantaire, “Fucking- Fucking faint on me, Christ, just-” 

Enjolras shakes his head and kisses him, and Grantaire walks the both of them backwards until the backs of Enjolras’s knees strike the edge of the sofa, and Grantaire stops kissing him but he takes his hand to hold, and so Enjolras does not mind terribly.

Many things do not change.

Or, even that is not exactly accurate.  _ Most _ things do not change. And most of that is good--they still eat breakfast together, and Grantaire still lets Enjolras badger him with all of the questions that he has gathered over the course of the day; they still sit on the sofa together in the evenings to watch movings; they still invite their friends to the apartment for dinner on Thursday nights. 

Grantaire kisses him, now, which is new--before he leaves for work in the mornings, soft and brief; in the evenings, as they sit on the sofa, together, deep and slow and enough to make Enjolras’s heart flutter.

That is where he finds himself now, in fact--pulled to straddle Grantaire’s lap, with Grantaire’s arm around his waist and Grantaire’s lips on his own and his tongue in his mouth, and it is  _ good _ , it is always good, and Grantaire is sweet to him and he  _ loves  _ him and Enjolras  _ wants _ .

“Grantaire,” he gasps, when he can no longer go without breathing. “Grantaire-”

Grantaire only shifts to mouth kisses to the corner of his jaw, to his neck, and Enjolras, he-

He-

“Grantaire,” he chokes out, once more, and Grantaire hums, and Enjolras  _ wants _ , and-

And Grantaire wears nothing atop his shirt, anyways, and it is easy to slip a hand up the front, to feel hot skin against his palm, and then-

And then Grantaire lets out a choked noise, and Enjolras is being shoved off of his lap and onto the cushion beside him before he even truly understands what has happened. 

(This, Enjolras thinks, is one of those rare things which he would like to change, at some point--the fact that Grantaire seems amenable to anything, to anything that Enjolras wants, until they come to the subject of what Enjolras  _ wants _ .)

“Um,” says Grantaire, breathless, frantic, “Do you want to get dinner?” His voice cracks. There is a ruddy flush to his cheeks that Enjolras rather enjoys.

He clears his throat, attempts to recover. Attempts not to be offended by his sudden… displacement. “Dinner?”

“Yeah, like- like, do you want to get dinner with me?”

Um.

He wonders if he has done something to offend, for Grantaire to require an excuse, or- He does not  _ know _ . “We have dinner together every evening,” he says, slowly. “We live together.”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “No, um, like, a date?”

He waits for Grantaire to explain; he does not.

“It- You don’t have to,” says Grantaire, before Enjolras can even figure out what, exactly, he would begin to ask. “‘S fine.” It does not sound fine.

“What do you mean, a date?” It sounds familiar, though not enough so that he can call to mind the meaning. 

Grantaire-

Grantaire says nothing. His gaze remains quite resolutely fixed on the floor.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras hazards, because Grantaire doesn’t- Grantaire never simply refuses to explain something to him, never does this. 

He swears. Enjolras dares to lay a hand upon his arm. 

“Grantaire,” he says, reminds him, for this  _ matters _ , for Grantaire cannot- “I do not know what that is.”

“Sorry,” Grantaire grits out, and he sighs, then- “Like- Like, it’s when two people go out together. ‘Cause they like each other. So it’s like, dinner or brunch or a concert or coffee, or something. And I just thought, cause you mentioned you wanted-” He breaks off, shrugs.

That sounds awfully similar to- “Like courtship,” Enjolras guesses, because- “Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta are dating,” he recalls, and that must be where the word comes from, from  _ dates _ , which does not even truly make sense, in and of itself, for the word already has its own meaning, there is no need to-

It is, he realizes, upon the sight of the furrow to Grantaire’s brow, perhaps not the best time to consider his disagreements with modern language. 

“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “Yeah, I guess it’s- I guess it’s like courtship.” He looks rather sheepish.

(Enjolras’s heart does a quick stutter.)

“And you wish to have a date.” 

Grantaire shrugs, again, but he can’t quite meet Enjolras’s gaze. “Yeah, I mean-” He draws in a deep breath, releases it. “If you want to?”

“Would we then be courting?” he asks, foolishly, before he can correct himself, but he cannot help but to be foolish when Grantaire, Grantaire wants- (He does what he can to hold back the hopeful smile that he feels rising to his cheeks. He cannot assume, cannot stand the risk, but maybe, maybe.) “Dating?”

“Not necessarily,” Grantaire presses, as though it is anything close to what Enjolras wants to hear. “A lot of people go on dates with people before they’re actually, like, dating. Just to try it out. To see if they like it. Them. The other person. Yeah.”

What a foolish notion. Enjolras already knows he likes Grantaire,  _ has _ known he likes Grantaire. But it was not a  _ no _ , either, and- “But if I so desired?” He says, and his hands have taken to shaking--he presses them to the cushion of the sofa.

And then,  _ then _ , Grantaire looks at him, and there is a desperation in his gaze that Enjolras must have failed to notice, before. “Do you?” He asks, pleads. 

“Yes,” says he, for it is the truth.

“Oh,” says Grantaire. His mouth works, after, but he does not seem to be able to come up with anything to say.

“We could go to dinner? As a date?” Enjolras suggests, “And then- And then we would be dating?”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, again, softer, this time, and Enjolras’s hands are still shaking but Grantaire takes them up in his own, anyways, and kisses him.

They go to dinner. 

Grantaire takes him out to a restaurant more formal than any he’s been to, in this century, and they are the both of them underdressed but Grantaire kicks their ankles together under the table and lets him get whatever he chooses and smiles at him nervously over their plates and Grantaire is  _ courting _ him.

Grantaire  _ loves _ him, Enjolras recalls, and he flushes hot. 

“Good?” Grantaire asks him, and Enjolras does not know if he is enquiring after him or after the wine, which sweet and strong and dark and which has just been poured, but he nods, for it fits the both.

“Good,” he says.

They eat, and Enjolras drinks three glasses of wine, and Grantaire insists he order dessert, as well, and it is everything like every dinner they’ve ever shared, and it is nothing like that at all. Grantaire, he reminds himself, for the hundredth time, is  _ courting _ him.

Courting  _ him _ . Grantaire, who is strong and kind and warm and talented, and who knows everything about this century and about relations and about  _ friends _ , and who could likely court anyone he desired. He, who knows nothing but words on a page and cruel, cold things--how to shoot true, how to keep his voice steady as he makes the case for young men to lay down their lives in the street for hopeless causes.

He understands none of it, but he is selfish, and neither will he argue. Not when Grantaire takes his arm, as they leave the restaurant, and pulls him in a little closer as they walk. Not when Grantaire’s arm comes to wrap about his shoulders as they sit in the Metro, when he lets Enjolras, loose-limbed from the wine, rest his head upon his shoulder.

They walk home from the station, arm in arm, and the air is chilled, but Enjolras’s blood thrums hot in his veins. Perhaps-

Perhaps this is why Grantaire would not bed him, before--he had been waiting for the two of them to be courting officially, had wanted to take Enjolras properly. This would make sense, he supposes--Grantaire is so  _ careful _ with him, sometimes. But they have had a date, and now they are dating, and they are going home, and-

His cheeks heat. He wonders-

He wonders how Grantaire will feel beneath his hands. He does not know much of- of  _ love _ , to put it politely, cannot truly even say what it is that he wants, but he knows-

He knows he wants Grantaire.

He knows he wants Grantaire to touch him.

He knows that when Grantaire kisses him, he wishes that he would never stop, not ever. 

Grantaire is experienced, though, he knows this. Grantaire will know what to do, will know what will feel good, will kiss him, during, and-

Grantaire tugs him into the elevator, pushes the number for their floor, and Enjolras is pulled from his thoughts as the floor moves. 

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and Grantaire huffs a laugh and pulls him in a little closer. 

They are almost  _ home _ . Soon, Grantaire will-

(He thinks back to- to what little he has read, of the subject--classics, mainly, though also a small illustrated pamphlet handed quietly off to him by his classmate, one that showed men… close. One atop another. Not particularly  _ loving _ , in nature, but Grantaire has kissed him enough already for him to know that Grantaire could never do anything to him with anything less than absolute tenderness.)

Grantaire leads him out of the elevator, unlocks the door to the apartment, shuts it behind them, and-

“Well, um-” he says, and he drops Enjolras’s arm. “That was- nice?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras, and he is flushing, and surely, Grantaire will lean in any moment, now, and-

Grantaire leans in, too fast, and brushes a kiss across Enjolras’s lips, and pulls away before Enjolras can even kiss back. “Goodnight,” he blurts, and then he is scrambling away to his bedroom and closing the door behind him.

Enjolras blinks.

That-

Was not what he had been expecting.

He goes back to his room and takes off his shoes and lies down upon the bed and stares up at the ceiling. 

Enjolras wakes from the nap he had been taking on the sofa to find that Grantaire has returned from his work--his feet are resting in Grantaire’s lap; there is a broad hand curled about one of his ankles, rubbing softly. There is the soft scratch of pencil against paper--Grantaire is drawing, surely, which he does not usually- does not usually  _ do _ in front of Enjolras, and Grantaire’s thumb traces circles on the bone of his ankle, and Enjolras-

Enjolras does not think that he has ever been more content than this, not ever.

He cracks his eyes open. “What are you drawing?” he slurs out, half against the pillow, still heavy from sleep.

Grantaire’s hand stops its ministrations, but does not release itself. “Hey,” he says, and then, “Um. It’s- You, actually.”

Enjolras hums, sits up marginally more. He does not remove his feet from Grantaire’s lap; Grantaire does not make him do so. And he does not wish to overstep, to push, for there is a reason why Grantaire never draws in front of him, surely, but they are  _ courting _ , now, and Grantaire is drawing beside him, and- “May I see?” he asks. 

There is a moment, there, in which Enjolras thinks that Grantaire will deny him--will shut the notebook and set it aside with a self-deprecating scoff. He moves to do so, even, but then stops, and grits his jaw, and hands the sketchbook over.

He takes it, runs his fingertips over the smooth, perfect paper. But- “Do you know where-” His spectacles are not on the chain around his neck, but Grantaire is handing them over before he can even finish his question. He dons them, murmurs his thanks, and-

“Oh,” he breathes. “Grantaire, this-”

He cannot find the words. For- For he  _ knew _ that Grantaire was talented, has known it since he saw his paintings in Jehan’s apartment, but it is different, like this. It is different, when Grantaire has offered it up freely. It is different, to see himself marked out in soft pencil, sprawled out on the sofa, asleep.

He looks… soft. Tired. Grantaire has drawn the press of his cheek to the sofa cushion, the tangle of his fingers in his hair, the way the soft, flat collar of his shirt has been pulled off to the side, baring his clavicle. 

It is frighteningly intimate. 

His heart  _ thuds _ beneath his ribs. He had never imagined-

He is not one who ought to be loved, such. He is cruel and odd and cold, and he dreams of blood, seeping into the seams of his boots, and he has fine features, yes, but he has always looked too young, too delicate, and-

And Grantaire has drawn him like  _ this _ .

Like  _ this _ , because he loves him.

Enjolras flips back a page, and Grantaire has drawn him there, too, reading at the table, his spectacles slipping down his nose. And then there is a page filled with sketches of things about the apartment--small things, the fruit bowl, a glass of water, a book that Enjolras must have left on the table, and then a page of hands, in all different positions, only--and he looks closer--he recognizes the form of the fingernails, and the scar on the knuckle, for they are  _ his _ hands, and-

And then there is a page of rough drawings of Bahorel, and then another of Enjolras, hair all askew and fingers wrapped around a plastic bottle of water, and then Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, and then Enjolras, and then Enjolras again.

“Do- Do you mind?” Grantaire asks, as Enjolras turns pages and sees his own face, over and over and over, and there is such a tension to it, such a tremor to his voice, that Enjolras forces himself to drag his gaze from the drawings and shake his head.

He does not know if he is able to speak, as of yet. He cannot stop himself from turning the pages, and perhaps he is going too far, but Grantaire does not stop him, and there is a drawing of him from what must have surely been the first week, with a bandage on his forehead and shadows dark beneath his eyes and a tense, wan look upon his face, and he turns the page again, and-

He stares down at-

At-

“How- How do you-” At  _ himself _ , with a carbine in hand and standing among the splinters of wood and men, with a hand pulled tight in the hair of a man who is a murderer, who is begging, who knows his name, and how does Grantaire  _ know _ , how does he-

He draws in a breath, but his chest is tight and his lungs seem to reject the air. “How-” he scrapes a hand through his hair, turns to Grantaire, how does he  _ know _ , he-

“How do you know of this?” He demands, and his voice only shakes a bit. He pulls his legs from off of Grantaire’s lap. “You have- You have no business knowing of this, how do- how do you-”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire begins, and he reaches for him, but-

Enjolras scrambles off of the sofa, and he cannot bring himself to see the look of fury in his own eyes and cannot bring himself to let go of the sketchbook and cannot bring himself to  _ breathe _ , he cannot  _ breathe _ , and how could Grantaire know of this, how could he know the face of the man who he sees every time he shuts his eyes, how could he know what Enjolras has done and the shape of the cobbles beneath his feet and-

His head spins. He tries, once more, to suck in a breath of air, but his lungs pay him no mind. He thinks, distantly, that he may be crying--although perhaps he is only thinks that he is crying, what with the way his fingers and his cheeks have gone numb, and his heartbeat is loud, too fast, in his chest.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras shoves the notebook at him.

“How do you  _ know _ ,” he demands, pleads, begs, and his hands are shaking, again, and he feels the jolt of a carbine and there is a spray of grapeshot against brick, against stone, and there is a hand around his ankle and when Grantaire reaches out, he lets himself collapse into his arms, never mind that it is Grantaire who made the drawing, who knows, somehow, what Enjolras has done, who knows that he is cruel and damned and undeserving and-

Grantaire sinks down to the floor, bringing Enjolras with him, and tucks Enjolras’s face into the hollow of his neck and holds him close as he gasps for breath against the thin cotton of his shirt. (There is a spray of grapeshot against brick and splintered wood and splintered bone, and the jolt of a carbine under his hand, and a ringing in his ears, and a boy, too young to be fighting for such hopeless causes, dying at his feet, his jaw half shot off and a hole in his gut, and-)

“There’s a painting,” Grantaire says, as though that makes any sense at all.

“What?” Enjolras manages, chokes out. (He can feel the ticking of a pocket watch in his hand.)

“The drawing, I- There’s a painting of you, in the museum, I only- I just copied it, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- Fuck, I didn’t mean for you to see it, Enj, I swear, I just-” His fingers card gingerly through Enjolras’s hair. “Are you angry?”

He forces himself to breathe, to draw the air in a little steadier. “How long have you known?”

“About the painting?” Grantaire asks, as though he cannot see what he himself has drawn.

“ _ No _ ,” Enjolras grits out, although- “Well- Yes, but that is not- How long have you known that I- that I-” There is a spray of grapeshot against brick; he flinches, lets Grantaire hold him tighter, despite himself- “That- That-” his chest is so very  _ tight _ , and he- “That-”

“Breathe,” Grantaire reminds him, and Enjolras only considers snapping at him until he realizes that he had not been, and even then, it is difficult to compel his lungs to do so.

He cannot bear to release his hands from where they clutch at the front of Grantaire’s shirt. “How long have you known that I- I  _ killed _ him, Grantaire, the murderer, the man, there, he is  _ dead _ , at my hands, when did you learn this?”

“I mean-” Grantaire pulls him back, gentle as anything, and for a moment, Enjolras cannot  _ stand _ him, cannot stand the way in which he is so hopelessly kind, so unflinchingly gentle, when Enjolras does not need that and does not deserve it, either, and- “I mean, I saw the painting, like, literally the day after I met you. That’s kinda how ‘Ferre and I knew who you were? And what your whole deal was?”

There are hands on his cheeks, smoothing back hair to tuck it behind his ears, but he cannot bring himself to open his eyes, cannot bring himself to see the look upon Grantaire’s face. “Why did you let me  _ stay _ , then?”

Grantaire makes a pained noise in the back of his throat, and Enjolras opens his eyes before he can stop himself, but Grantaire, somehow, does not look upon him with judgement, or with anger, or with disgust. “‘Cause- ‘Cause you needed help,” he says, as though it is obvious. “And ‘cause you didn’t exactly seem like you were gonna do anything, honestly, man, I wasn’t that worried.”

“I could have,” Enjolras reminds him, for Grantaire had no reason to trust him, and he has hurt people before, though he would like to think that he had reason for it, at the time, and Grantaire had let him into his apartment, into his home, without caution, and- “Why would you- Why would you let me  _ stay _ , though, Grantaire, if you knew, why would you- You threw me a  _ party _ , with a  _ cake _ , and you have introduced me to your friends, and you trust me in your apartment, and if you knew, why are you- why are you courting me, if you knew, why-”

He is looking at Enjolras oddly--tearily, perhaps. “‘Cause I  _ like _ you,” he says, and then he is being pulled into an embrace that crushes his ribs and presses his cheek to Grantaire’s chest and makes him feel a small bit warmer. “That shit’s not, like, conditional on whether or not you killed someone 200 years ago. I just- I’m totally gone for you, man, ask anyone.”

“You do not even-” he begins, but he stops, for-

“I know you,” says Grantaire, soft, against his hair.

“Not everything,” says Enjolras, for he can never just let something fucking lie. 

“Okay,” says Grantaire, and Enjolras-

Enjolras, somehow, believes him. 

Enjolras does not know for how long they sit together on the floor before Grantaire convinces him to his feet, does not know for how long they sit before Grantaire takes his hand and leads him to Grantaire’s bedroom and sits him down on the bed.

He is  _ tired _ , hands still shaking from the shock, eyelids resting heavy from the stress of it all. Part of him wonders how it is that Grantaire knows, knows that this is something that he needs, despite his having just awoken from a nap not an hour before; part of him thinks back, recalls the way that Grantaire always watches so very closely, has always seemed to know such things, even before they ever kissed, and figures that he ought not be quite so surprised. 

He has never spent any considerable amount of time in Grantaire’s bedroom, before. Nothing past a glance around upon knocking to ask a question. Nothing like this--like absently handing Grantaire his spectacles, when prompted, and letting Grantaire ease him under the quilt, and Grantaire doing nothing to hide the easel in the corner or the worn clothes, hung over the back of a chair. 

Enjolras loves him. 

He had always expected love to be so difficult--love for a country, love for liberty, love for the people is so  _ difficult _ . This is nothing of the sort. This is warm and soft and kind, just like Grantaire himself.

He wants-

“Lie with me?” he asks, and Grantaire flushes pink but nods and kicks off his shoes and joins him under the quilt. 

Grantaire pulls him in to his chest, wraps a strong arm about his shoulders. He smells of sweat and of the soap that they both use, now, fresh and impossibly clean-smelling, and of something now familiar but as of yet unidentifiable.

“How was your day of work?” he asks, words muffled against Grantaire’s shoulder, for he has not asked, yet, and he likes to hear Grantaire speak, easy and low. 

“Fine,” says Grantaire. “Somebody puked in the AC vent. Super gross.”

And Enjolras does not know what that means in the slightest, but he huffs a laugh and lets his eyes fall closed. 

He falls asleep to Grantaire’s thumb rubbing circles at the nape of his neck and to Grantaire’s heart beating steady beneath his cheek.

Enjolras wakes. The ceiling above him is-

The ceiling above him is not made of perfect, bright white plaster, for there is a crack, hardly noticeable, running along it that he has never seen before in his life. 

He frowns.

“W’s’up?” Grantaire mumbles, and he curls around Enjolras with a groan, and Enjolras smiles.

“I did not recognize your ceiling,” he explains, though Grantaire is half-asleep and surely not listening, but Grantaire only says-

“Like it?” And he casts a glimpse upwards, to see for himself, and Enjolras loves him.

“There is a crack in it. No matter.”

“‘Kay,” says Grantaire, and then he kisses Enjolras, slow and sleep-heavy and chaste. 

He reaches over to take Grantaire’s hand, threads their fingers together like woven cloth. “What time is it?”

“Evening,” Grantaire says, “Ish,” he says, and he is looking at Enjolras with such a fond expression that he cannot help but to smile.

They are, the both of them, fools. 

“I am in love with you,” says Enjolras, which he has never said before in all of his life. 

Grantaire-

Grantaire makes a noise in his throat. “Oh,” he manages, and then, “Oh, fuck, Enj, I love you, too, I-” And Enjolras kisses him. 

Grantaire gasps, against his lips, and then, in an instant, hauls him close and kisses him, kisses him fast and desperate, and- “Oh, fuck, Enj, really?”

He does not wish to stop kissing him, but for Grantaire, he pulls away by a hair’s breadth and nods. “Yes. Truly.”

“Oh,” breathes Grantaire, “That’s- Oh, jeez.”

Enjolras hums, and waits for Grantaire to kiss him, again, but Grantaire does nothing but bring a hand to rest upon his cheek and look upon him with wide, wide eyes. 

Their feet are tangled together, beneath the quilt. Enjolras does not think that he has ever been so close to another person, before. He cannot bear anything but to draw closer, to kiss Grantaire and to let Grantaire shove the quilt out of the way and wrap an arm about his waist.

Grantaire kisses him deeply, and Enjolras does what he can to keep up but Grantare never seems to mind the caution, the inexperience, to his touch, and he does not seem to now, either, for he groans, and the sound rumbles in his chest and Enjolras feels it against his own, and he  _ wants _ .

He is not usually so brave, so brash, as to ruck Grantaire’s shirt up and press a sure hand to his ribs, but Grantaire loves him, and Grantaire knows him, and he is rather tired of Grantaire kissing him so deeply but allowing nothing more, and so he does. Grantaire skin is warm, under his hand. And Grantaire-

Grantaire only kisses him harder, pulls him over until he is nearly atop Grantaire, and moans, and his fingers are in Enjolras’s hair, and their legs fall together so that one of Grantaire’s broad thighs is between the both of Enjolras’s own, and he cannot help but to press forwards, to take advantage of the warmth, the source of friction, and it is  _ good _ , and he hears himself moan against Grantaire’s lips, and-

And Grantaire’s hand moves down to his hip, to his thigh, and he groans, and then-

“Oh, shit,” Grantaire hisses, and he pulls back with a frantic breath of a laugh. “Listen, I’m, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” Enjolras wants to lick the hinge of his jaw, and so he does, and lets himself bury his nose at his neck as he breathes, and Grantaire swears, again. “Enj, shit, um, I-”

He pulls back with a sigh. “I do not understand you, at times,” he says, and Grantaire shifts uncomfortably beneath him. He props himself up with an elbow on Grantaire’s chest, and moves to look at him, and-

And Grantaire ruts up, jerkily, against his thigh, and swears. “Shit, Enj, sorry, I-”

Grantaire is, at times, confusing. “Do you not wish to bed me?” Enjolras asks, plainly. 

“Uh,” Grantaire says, which does not help much.

“It is fine if you do not,” Enjolras reminds him. “Or if you wish to wait, I only- I would prefer to  _ know _ , if you will understand. What you prefer, that is.”

Grantaire does not seem calmed by this. Rather, he has taken to staring at Enjolras, mouth agape.

He wants to kiss him an awful lot, but he figures that it is not the best of times to do so. “It’s only-” he gets out, and he twists his fingers in the fabric of Grantaire’s shirt as he speaks. “It’s only, you always reject me, when I attempt to initiate anything, and you never actually tell me  _ why _ , and I- You  _ know _ that I lack in experience, and it is difficult not to take it somewhat to heart. That is all.” It is uncomfortable, to state aloud, but what is more uncomfortable is the way that Grantaire is frowning 

“I don’t reject you,” Grantaire chokes out, which is untrue.

“You do,” Enjolras reminds him. “Often.”

“No, you-” He looks a bit panicked, which is odd, seeing as Enjolras is the one who- “I would, um, I would know if you- I definitely wouldn’t reject you, if you know what I mean?” 

Perhaps Enjolras should have been a bit more… blatant, in his approach.

“So you do wish to bed me.”

“No!” Grantaire retorts, and Enjolras’s gut drops for a moment before Grantaire swears. “No, fuck, I mean,  _ yes _ , yes, obviously, but I don’t- I don’t want to rush you. I’m really, really trying not to rush you, ‘cause I can wait, I swear, I- I’m so serious, you can take as long as you need before we do anything, you don’t even have to- I mean, I could pretty much wait forever. I wouldn’t mind. You shouldn’t feel like you have to  _ do  _ anything, for us to be together. Um.”

“Fine,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire lets out a breath. “Good. Just so- Just so you know.”

“Good,” says Enjolras, and then he reaches for the hem of Grantaire’s shirt. “I do not feel rushed,” he explains, as Grantaire makes a choked sound. “I really, really wish that you would remove your shirt.”

“You-” He stares, for a moment, and then keens. “You, um, want? Me?”

At least Grantaire understands this now--it is better than never. “Very much so, Grantaire, I-” He lets Grantaire tilt his head up, meet his gaze. “I lack in experience,” he says, again, “I do not know what-” he swallows- “I  _ want _ this, Grantaire, but I do not know-”

Grantaire kisses him, fast and brief, then rolls them, in an instant, and Enjolras is staring up at the crack in the ceiling and Grantaire, above him, who says, “I’ll make it so fucking good for you, I swear, you won’t regret it, Enj-”

“I know,” he says, for he does. “Take off your shirt, first?”

“‘Kay,” he says, and he tugs it off over his head, throws it aside, and-

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes, and he is faced with strong muscle and dark hair and a healthy weight around the middle, and- “You look- You look very strong. You could probably-” He swallows, thinks of… a number of things, and he cannot help but to reach out, to run a hand up his gut, up his chest to rest on the muscle, there- “You- You could likely chop a great deal of firewood,” he hears himself say, nonsensically, but he cannot be blamed for the fact that his mind seems to have stopped working entirely. His cock, which had hardly been  _ soft _ , before, gives a kick. His head spins.

“If you want,” says Grantaire, equally senselessly, but he kisses Enjolras, again, and pulls Enjolras’s hoodie and his shirt off as one until they are bare chest to bare chest, and so he does not dwell on it. “But, um, hey, do you-” his gaze is fixed on Enjolras’s chest, his ribs, and he knows that he lacks the substance that Grantaire has but Grantaire lets out a soft groan, anyways. “Do you want me to-”

He does not know to what, exactly, Grantaire refers, but he knows that he has never wanted anything more. “Yes.” And then- “Um. Please?”

And Grantaire kisses him. 

Enjolras does not truly have the time to relish it, in and of itself, for Grantaire-

Grantaire moves to kiss at the hinge of his jaw, down his neck, and when Enjolras reaches for him, grabs at his shoulders on impulse, he only kisses him harder, bites a little, and it is  _ good _ . He pushes Enjolras’s trousers down his thighs, and lets his hands rest on his hips, and Enjolras swears. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, against Enjolras’s chest. 

“Yes,” Enjolras gasps out. “Yes, Grantaire, please-” He does not even know what Grantaire is  _ doing _ , does not know what he intends to-

Only, Grantaire is not stopping, in his descent, and he marks kisses, wet and shameless, down his stomach, down to his hip, and-

“Oh, God,” Enjolras manages, for Grantaire means to-

To-

Grantaire nips at the sharp corner of his hip, and he feels himself grow harder, and he would be embarrassed, but for the way that he can feel Grantaire’s own cock against his thigh, and- “Want me to?” asks Grantaire, and-

“Yes,” he chokes out, and-

And Grantaire presses his face to Enjolras’s groin and draws in a breath and licks a line up Enjolras’s cock.

Enjolras nearly shouts. He cannot tear his eyes from Grantaire, from the way he nestles himself between his legs. “Oh, fuck,” he gasps, and Grantaire laughs and takes him into his mouth.

Enjolras-

Enjolras has never felt anything like this, before. Grantaire’s mouth works around his cock, hot and tight, and his tongue lathes up the side and when Enjolras’s hands hover, helpless and shaking, in the air at the midpoint between the two of them, Grantaire reaches up to grab them, to place one on a strong shoulder and to weave the other into his hair. “Grantaire,” he pleads, though for what, he knows not. “Grantaire, Grantaire, I-” his breath hiccups. “Grantaire, I-”

Grantaire’s hands find their way back to his hips, hold him firm. 

His world reduces down to this--to Grantaire, and his hands, and the wonderful suction on his cock, and the noises he makes in the back of his throat that Enjolras can  _ feel _ , and-

One of Grantaire’s hands closes around the base of his cock, and Enjolras’s hips fuck upwards, and he does not mean to pull at Grantaire’s hair, but he cannot help it, and Grantaire  _ groans _ , and Enjolras gasps, because he could hear that forever, because-

Because Grantaire just sucks harder, adds a twist to his wrist, because-

Because where Grantaire’s hand holds his hip, his thumb rubs circles into the skin, there, because-

Because-

“Grantaire,” he manages. 

“Good?” Grantaire pulls off to say, and Enjolras can feel his breath against his cock. 

He groans, endeavors to tug him back down. “Yes,  _ good _ , Grantaire, will you-”

Grantaire laughs, the bastard, and gives his cock a delicate lick. “Just checking,” he says, and there is a teasing lilt to his voice that Enjolras cannot abide and loves more than anything, both. 

“Gran _ taire _ ,” he grits out, “If you do not-” He does not even know what leverage he has, but it does not matter, for Grantaire only laughs again and swallows him down.

Heavens, but it is so very  _ good _ . Grantaire keeps a pattern--a twist of his wrist, and a bobbing of his head to go along with it, and it changes only enough that Enjolras, pleasure-addled, cannot quite follow it, finds himself lingering on the rub of his thumb, or the way his tongue curls.

If this is the pleasure of the great distraction of men, he thinks, he feels now somewhat more sympathetic to the corrupted soldier. He tries to say as much, to Grantaire, but he can only stammer it out in fragments, cannot find the right words, and Grantaire hums, and he is lost. 

He lets himself drift in it, in the pleasure--in the way that Grantaire cares for him, in the shape of his mouth around his cock, in the way his grip grows tighter on his hip. He cannot bear to shut his eyes, though they flutter and threaten to do so against his will, for he is fairly certain that he will never, ever be able to remove this memory from his thoughts, and so he may as well keep it in its entirety, and-

Grantaire does something with his tongue that makes him whimper, curse, moan Grantaire’s name, and it is only then that he realizes just how fast the heat that has built up in his gut has done so, he-

“Grantaire,” he says, for the hundredth time, “G-Grantaire, I shall not- I-”

He does not let up, does nothing to change his pace but to smooth a hand up Enjolras’s ribs, where they tremble like those of a horse after a chase, and-

He holds tight to Grantaire, lets his hands clench in his hair, on his shoulder, and Grantaire- Grantaire takes him in  _ deeper _ , swallowing him down, and Enjolras gasps, and his hips twitch, and Grantaire rubs at his ribs with that broad hand of his with such unmistakeable affection, and it is  _ good,  _ it is so very good, and Grantaire’s throat works around his cock and Enjolras groans and he cannot think and-

He is going to come, he realizes, and it surprises him, in its suddenness, and that is all that he can think before his mind whites out and he comes down Grantaire’s throat.

When he can think again-

When he can  _ breathe _ again-

He opens his eyes. His chest heaves.

Grantaire sits between his thighs, rubbing his hands over Enjolras’s hip, his stomach. He has pulled off of his cock; his mouth is rubbed raw. His cock is hard, pressing a line against his trousers.

He watches Enjolras with bright eyes. “Good?” he asks, which is such a foolish question that Enjolras cannot help but to breathe a laugh.

“Yes, good,” he says, and Grantaire is still  _ watching _ him, and he wonders-

He sits up, though he still feels shaky and his head spins, and he reaches out to lay a hand on the side of Grantaire’s neck. It is damp with sweat.

Grantaire keens.

“Do you want me to-” he breaks off, does not know quite how to say it, but- “help you?” he settles on.

Grantaire draws in a deep breath. “You don’t have to,” he says, though he leans in to Enjolras’s hand like it is a promise.

“May I?” he asks, instead, and Grantaire nods frantically, and Enjolras kisses him. He tastes of salt--of spend, really, he supposes, though he would not know the taste intimately. Enjolras reaches for the waist of his trousers as they kiss, drawn frantic and sloppy by Grantaire, and he-

He-

He works the button a bit harder, but he does not- “Foolish- Twenty-first century trousers-” he grits out, for Grantaire is mouthing at the hinge of his jaw and he does not have  _ time _ for this. “Grantaire-”

“Here, here, it’s-” Grantaire bats his hands away, jerks the fly open, shoves the trousers down his thighs, and-

“Oh,” Enjolras breathes. Grantaire’s cock is-

Well, it is nice, he supposes, though he hardly has the experience to compare. It is heavy with blood, and flushed dark, and a trail of hair leads down to it from Grantaire’s naval, and he reaches out to touch.

It is hot under his hand. When he takes hold of it properly, Grantaire swears and bites at his neck and wraps his arms around him. 

“What should I-”

“Just-” Grantaire’s hand makes its way back to Enjolras’s hair. “Just- Like you’re jerking yourself off, only- Only, reverse, you know?” Enjolras tightens his grip experimentally. Grantaire moans. “Just- It’ll be fine, it’ll be good, just  _ touch  _ me, Enj, God, fuck, Christ, you-”

Enjolras gives it a stroke, and Grantaire shuts up, but to press a moan to the skin of his neck. “Tell me how you like it?” he asks, and Grantaire groans, and his hips buck forwards, and Enjolras strokes him again and again.

Grantaire fucks into his hand, and kisses his neck so hard that Enjolras thinks that it may bruise, and he has never done this before to another man and his wrist aches, somewhat, but he does not mind, for-

“I love you,” he says, for it is the truth, and Grantaire  _ keens _ and works his hips harder.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “Fuck, Enj, I love you, too, you-”

He tries twisting his wrist a little, cannot help but to smile when Grantaire moans. “How is it?”

“Little-” his breath hitches- “Little tighter?”

Enjolras can only comply, can only- “Grantaire,” he gasps, when he nips at his pulse, and had he not come mere minutes before, he would surely be growing hard again. 

“Uh-huh?” he hums, against Enjolras’s neck, but he wants-

“ _ Kiss _ me,” he grits out, and Grantaire kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. And his hips fuck up into Enjolras’s hand, and he holds him close, and Grantaire says-

“Enjolras, God, fuck, Enj, I’m-” and he is coming, against Enjolras’s hand and his stomach and his cock. Enjolras strokes him through it, kisses him through it, and when it is over, Grantaire collapses upon him so thoroughly that they are both brought down to the mattress.

“Oof,” says Enjolras, from beneath Grantaire’s weight.

“Fuck,” says Grantaire.

They both breathe. Grantaire does not move to remove himself from where he has fallen atop of Enjolras, and Enjolras would not have him do so. 

Minutes pass.

“So,” says Grantaire, eventually. “Dinner?”

Enjolras opens his eyes. Grantaire still has his closed, has his cheek pressed to Enjolras’s chest, has his arms around him.

He does not look particularly capable of cookery, at the moment.

Enjolras wraps his arms about his neck and stares up at the ceiling. “Perhaps- Perhaps we ought simply summon Thai food, tonight,” he suggests.

Grantaire hums. “Smart.”

He wonders- “Can a dinner still be considered a date if it takes place in one’s own home?” he asks.

Grantaire opens his eyes. They are very warm and very brown. “I mean, we’re in charge, aren’t we?”

It is a good point. He rather enjoys having dates with Grantaire.

“Is it still a date if we have said dinner on the sofa, instead of at the table?”

Grantaire smiles. “Sure,” he says.

What a wonderful concept. Although-

“Is it still a date if you do not put your shirt back on?” he hazards.

And Grantaire laughs, and he kisses him, and Enjolras kisses him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said i would put warnings for smut in the end notes so here they are! this chapter contains fumbly, explicit blowjob content at the very end. xoxo 
> 
> enj has been trying to get grantaire's shirt of for literally three months and i'm very happy for him for finally accomplishing his goal
> 
> did people use the word "cock" regularly in 1832? honestly, i don't know, but despite my commitment to historical accuracy, i REFUSE to write a sex scene where enj keeps calling it his "staff of life" or his "nature" or some shit. i can't do it. i'm not strong enough. i hope that u guys can forgive me for this one.
> 
> anyways, this fic is almost done--just one more chapter of moderate length (i think) left! i've had such a wonderful time writing this and the support that i have gotten has been incredible and i am so so so grateful! i appreciate every comment literally so much so uhh like... comment... please... it's my only source of energy... i love u...
> 
> as always, follow my on my tumblr (@dannypuro) and send me asks and message me and come talk to me about this stupid little fic :^)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t get Grantaire wrong--it’s not like he likes change, now, or anything.  
> Honest.  
> Really.  
> It’s just...  
> Enjolras stirs, where he sleeps curled against Grantaire’s chest, snuffles a little, and Grantaire finds himself reaching up to card the hair out of his eyes, to run his thumb over the pale scar on his forehead, and he’s struck, for a moment, by the fact that he can, and-  
> Okay. Fine. So it’s nice. Whatever, he’s got other foundational beliefs that he can base his identity around. It’s cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for content warnings

Don’t get Grantaire wrong--it’s not like he likes change, now, or anything.

Honest.

Really.

It’s just...

Enjolras stirs, where he sleeps curled against Grantaire’s chest, snuffles a little, and Grantaire finds himself reaching up to card the hair out of his eyes, to run his thumb over the pale scar on his forehead, and he’s struck, for a moment, by the fact that he  _ can _ , and-

Okay. Fine. So it’s nice. Whatever, he’s got other foundational beliefs that he can base his identity around. It’s cool. 

Enjolras grumbles, a little, in his sleep--he’ll wake up soon enough if Grantaire keeps moving, and Enjolras wouldn’t mind, never does, but-

But Grantaire figures he’ll just let him sleep. He needs the rest, anyways. (Combeferre had mentioned something, early on, about how it’s probably the trauma that’s making Enjolras so tired, all the time. And that was months ago, but even so, Grantaire knows- he knows that Enjolras still feels it, still sees flashes of the barricade behind his eyes as though it had happened hours ago, instead of months or decades upon decades upon decades. And that’s the kind of thing that Grantaire doesn’t know about, doesn’t know what to do with, aside from to hold him close and to let him sleep, so-)

He pries Enjolras off of him, mourns the loss of contact and the unintelligible murmur that Enjolras leaves, and goes to take a shower. 

They’ve shared a bed for going on a month, now. 

Or-

Technically, that’s not true. Technically, Enjolras still uses the other room, keeps his clothes there and his books and his notes. Grantaire just doesn’t know how much of that actually counts, when Enjolras comes to his side, every night--never asks, just… lingers, until Grantaire invites him.

He scrubs at his face under the spray of the shower. God, he just wishes-

Okay, fuck, it’s not like he  _ minds _ inviting Enjolras in every night, not by a long shot. He just wishes he didn’t  _ have _ to. And that sounds shitty, super shitty, but he wishes-

He just wishes Enjolras would realize that he wants him there, okay? That he  _ always  _ wants him there. That-

Whatever. They’re working on it.

(Just the other day, Enjolras had taken a furtive glance around the dairy aisle of the supermarket before flushing pink and leaning up to give Grantaire a quick peck on the lips without even asking first. And fuck, that had been pretty much the only thing on Grantaire’s mind for the rest of the day, never mind the rest of the shopping, never mind however many people he’s hooked up with in club bathrooms, never mind any of that. And they’re working on it, they’re working on it.)

He turns off the shower and goes to make breakfast.

Probably, Grantaire thinks as he cracks an egg into the pan, probably, he just needs to ask Enjolras if he wants to move into his room. Probably, he thinks, he’ll say yes, only- 

Only, that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? That he’ll ask, and Enjolras will say yes, because he’s fucking  _ polite _ like that, and he’ll do whatever Grantaire wants regardless of whether or not it’s what  _ he _ wants, and if Grantaire isn’t careful he’ll end up fucking Enjolras up so, so bad, and he can’t afford to do that, not when the world has  _ already _ fucked Enjolras up so bad, not when Enjolras  _ trusts _ him, not-

He turns. Enjolras is in the doorway of the kitchen, rumpled by sleep and wearing one of Grantaire’s shirts, and Grantaire startles, only barely recovers his spatula before it can hit the floor. (God, he’s sneaky.)

“Hey,” Grantaire manages, once his spatula is safely back in hand.

“Good morning,” says Enjolras, like he says every morning, and then he smiles, and he stifles a yawn against his wrist, and he steps forward to press his nose to the back of Grantaire’s neck, to wrap his arms around Grantaire’s waist. 

Grantaire’s heart thrums. “Hey,” he says, again, but honestly, it’s not like he can fairly be expected to have  _ thoughts _ , not when Enjolras convinces his hand into Grantaire’s own. “Your nose is cold,” he says, instead of  _ I love you _ , if only because it’s a bit early in the day for that.

“I am aware of this,” Enjolras murmurs into the nape of his neck. “For what other reason would you be so politely warming it?” 

He grumbles, but squeezes Enjolras’s hand, anyways. “‘S like a fucking ice cube, man, seriously,” he says, but he doesn’t tell Enjolras to stop, either, because he thinks he might just get down on his knees and beg if Enjolras pulls away. 

Enjolras does not pull away. Enjolras, instead, nestles his icy, icy nose in closer and mumbles, half-asleep, “Mind your cookery.”

Grantaire bites back a grin and tugs at the join of their two hands. “Hard to, when I’m down an arm.”

“You had best mind it closer, then, I suppose,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire takes the time to consider the relative merit of letting go of Enjolras’s hand. He should, probably. He’ll get done cooking faster, he probably won’t spill anything under the burners, he probably won’t burn his knuckles against the edge of the pan. 

He cooks breakfast one-handed, anyways.

Two days later, Grantaire forgets to bring his lunch with him when he leaves for work.

He does not realize this until he is already at work.

“Fuck,” he hisses, too loud in the echo of the gallery, and then his phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out subtly enough, unlocks it, and-

**_uoiuhsvefprgittenyiurlumch_ ** , Enjolras’s text reads, and Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face as he tries to parse it.  _ You have forgotten your lunch _ , he ends up with, and it only takes a few moments--he’s gotten better at reading his texts, even if Enjolras doesn’t seem to be getting any better at actually texting. Go figure, honestly. That might just be one of those things that people from the 1830s don’t quite get. Like refrigerators, that one time Combeferre had tried to explain how they worked, or vacuums.

It’s cool, though. Grantaire can’t find it anywhere within himself to mind. 

**_Yeah, I know :^/_ ** , he texts back.  **_Just realized._ **

He slips his phone back into his pocket as he waits, glances around the gallery. Takes a moment to run his gaze over--over  _ Enjolras _ , marked out in oil and canvas and harsh, beautiful lines. He can’t read the plaque from where he stands, but he knows what it says-- **_Themis at the Barricades_ ** \--knows the description by heart, sometimes finds himself running through the words of it in his head as he walks to the Metro station or waits in line at the ATM. He could-

Well, he could go out to lunch, he supposes, but by the time he leaves and finds a place he’ll hardly have the time to eat before he has to get back through security, and-

His phone buzzes.  **_woilduuoulokemetpbrimgottouou_ ** , the message reads-- _ Would you like me to bring it to you?  _ And-

He hadn’t- He hadn’t thought of that. He should say no, honestly. He shouldn’t make Enjolras come all the way here, honestly, shouldn’t make him take the Metro during the lunch rush just because Grantaire can’t keep track of his shit, shouldn’t take advantage of the fact that he’s dating someone nice, for once. 

But.

But he did offer.

And it’s only been a few hours since he saw him, but Grantaire does- he does kind of miss him. 

He takes a breath, types,  **_Only if you want to. If not i’ll buy something no worries._ **

Enjolras, on canvas, watches him from across the gallery. Grantaire has the irrational urge to wipe the streak of grime from his cheek before he realizes that he has already done so, has already washed the gunsoot from his knuckles and coaxed him out of bloodied clothes, all months ago. 

His phone buzzes.  **_ishsllvisotinomehiurr_ ** , it reads. He stares down at it. It’s… a bit more of a challenge than usual. But-  _ I shall visit in one hour _ , he figures, eventually, and he bites back a smile, like a fucking sap. 

**_Thanks_ ** , he sends back,  **_See you then._ ** And then, because his heart is- is beating out some stupid little two-step in his chest,  **_:^)_ ** .

He doesn’t even have time to slip his phone back into his pocket before it vibrates twice in quick succession.  **_whstsith,_ ** then,  **_at_ ** . It vibrates again.  **_wjattustgat_ ** .  _ What is that _ , by all rights, but-

**_?_ ** Grantaire sends. 

**_clolncircvonmfkexebravket_ **

**_The face?_ ** He sends,  **_:^) ?_ **

**_isweemofacr,_ ** the phone reads-- _ I see no face _ \--and Grantaire stifles a laugh against his palm. 

A tourist shoots him a look from across the room. Grantaire scowls, but he also- he does, unfortunately, work here, so he sends,  **_Turn your head to the side_ ** , and,  **_I’ll see you later_ ** , and reluctantly pockets his phone.

Huh.

(He bites back a smile, fuck the tourists, fuck his dedication to professional apathy.)

Time passes slowly. 

A kid in a tiny polo shirt tries to touch the bottom edge of a painting-- of  _ the _ painting, of  _ Themis at the Barricades _ . Grantaire snaps at him and doesn’t even feel bad at all when the little shit starts crying. 

His feet hurt.

He checks his phone again. Joly’s texted him, asking about  _ that one movie you told bossuet about like two days ago with sandra bullock???, _ or something, and… he’ll get to that later. 

He groans very, very quietly.

Maybe he should just quit his job. That would probably be easiest. He should quit this stupid job, and then he wouldn’t have to wait here and he could meet Enjolras at the Metro, or something, and-

Someone clears their throat, and Grantaire looks up from where he had been watching a fly make its way across the floor, and Enjolras stands beside him, smiling sheepishly. One of Feuilly’s baseball caps is pulled down low over his eyes; his hands are tucked into the pocket of one of Grantaire’s ratty old hoodies. He’s cut himself shaving again--there’s a little square band-aid on the corner of his jaw--and he is so, so beautiful. 

“Hey,” Grantaire manages. His breath is caught somewhere in his chest, fights him as he tries to get it out.

“Hello,” says Enjolras, and he smiles a little broader. “I have brought you your lunch.”

He makes no move to hand the lunch over, to extrecate it from the bag he’s got slung over his shoulder, but it’s not like Grantaire fucking minds. “You’re the best, Enj, seriously,” he says, instead of something like  _ I love you so much my chest hurts _ , if only because Enjolras is still a little weird with the whole  _ affection-in-public _ thing.

Enjolras flushes pink. “Ah. Well. I have eaten the apple that you packed, so you mustn’t be too grateful.”

Of course. He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

“In my defense, it smelled lovely and I was rather hungry.” He pulls the bag with Grantaire’s lunch out of his own bag, and hands it over, and, after a moment’s hesitation, a glance around the gallery, brushes a tentative kiss to Grantaire’s cheek. “Do you mind, much?”

Grantaire glances around the gallery, on impulse--it’s empty enough, just a few stragglers, and he slips his arm through the crook of Enjolras’s, links their elbows. “Nah.” He’s been buying fruit for Enjolras for, like, five months, now--he’s pretty sure he can handle another contribution to the pile. “Did you see the gallery on the first floor on your way up?” 

Enjolras nestles his arm in Grantaire’s hold a little more comfortably, a little closer. “Through accident alone. I could not find the stairs, at first. Though I did in the end. Evidently.”

“Evidently,” Grantaire echoes, and it’s then that he realizes that Enjolras has turned them both to face the painting, to face  _ Themis at the Barricades _ , to face himself. “Oh, uh-”

Enjolras has gone quiet.

Shit.

Grantaire swallows. “Are- Are you-”

He breathes. “It-” There is a long pause. His throat clicks. Grantaire’s got the odd desire to shift his grip, to wrap his fingers around Enjolras’s wrist and feel the pulse, there. He doesn’t, not just then. “It is strange. To see it.”

And, uh,  _ yeah _ , Grantaire would fucking think so. He-

God, he never knows what to do, never knows what to fucking  _ say _ , not when it matters. Which is stupid, seeing as he never seems to have a fucking problem blathering on in any other setting. Useless, that’s what it is, what use is the gift of words if he’s got no say in it all, what-

“I only-” Enjolras breathes. At least he’s fucking breathing, at least his chest isn’t horribly, terrifyingly still where Grantaire holds him, tries to remind him to  _ breathe, please, Enj, come on _ , at least he isn’t choking on the air like he’s forgotten how to use his lungs and shaking in Grantaire’s arms. “I feel all of it. All of it.”

Grantaire glances over at him; Enjolras is still looking up at the painting. There is a set to his jaw that matches the one done up in canvas perfectly, and that doesn’t resemble it at all; his hair is longer, now. Grantaire makes a noise in the back of his throat, can manage nothing more--he doesn’t dare to move, because if he moves, Enjolras will stop talking, and he never talks about this, never, and for once, for  _ once _ Grantaire needs to not mess this up.

Enjolras holds his arm a little tighter. Grantaire can’t quite tell if the pulse he can feel like a jackhammer beneath his skin is Enjolras’s or his own. “I remember it, as though it happened only hours ago, I- I feel all of it. All of the time. And sometimes, I think that I dreamed it, because I have felt it so many times, is- is that odd?”

Grantaire clears his throat, a little belated. “No,” he says. His voice cracks; he tries again. “No, it’s not- That sounds- That sounds normal. To me.”

He just sighs. “It is only-” he blurts out, then glances around the gallery. “I  _ feel _ it, it is something more than memory, for- I shot that man, Grantaire, I killed him. And I have done-” He swallows. Grantaire’s heart hurts. “I have done horrible things. You know this.”

And, well, Grantaire does, and he doesn’t. He shrugs. 

Enjolras scoffs, but it’s not scornful, not really. “It is- It is fine. I do not regret the large part of them, I likely never will, I do not intend to, for-” He tilts his head up at the painting. Grantaire tears his gaze from him to look up at it--to look up at the face of a man, wrought with terror, and Enjolras, cold and sorrowful and not as beautiful as the real thing but still so, so stunning. “That man, the one kneeling, he took a gun from the stores of the barricade and with it shot an old man, uninvolved with the fight, through the window of his own house. With no warning, just-” he releases a breath, and it is like the gunshot itself. “I believe that he meant to seize the house as a firing site. It was- It was a repugnant act. Abhorrent. And I shot him, for I did not know what to do with a killer behind the barricade.”

The painter must have known all that, Grantaire thinks. There’s no other way he could have put such a wretched expression upon the face of the murderer. There’s no other way he could’ve gotten the sadness, just right, in Enjolras’s eyes. 

Enjolras swallows. “I permitted him to pray. I do not believe that I expected him to do so, and yet-” he shrugs. “It was hypocritical, but I did not intend- I intended it to be a sacrifice, for the sanctity of some- some new world.” It’s rueful, riddled with cold humor and regret. Grantaire doesn’t understand what’s so fucking funny about that. “I did not intend to be here to witness said new world. Not after having shot him,” he says.

Grantaire-

He-

It’s like somebody’s plunged his heart into a bucket of ice water with no warning at all. He doesn’t cry, much, but he thinks he would, if he wasn’t at work. Maybe. Probably. It’s a lot to hear. “Oh?” he manages. 

Enjolras, for the first time, seems to notice the fact that he’s shredding Grantaire’s poor heart to pieces. He pats Grantaire’s shoulder consolitarily, like that will make up for the fact that Enjolras didn’t- he didn’t think he’d- “I do not regret it,” he reminds him, and there is a quarter of a smile that graces his lips before it drops. “But- I was foolish. Foolhardy.”

“No,” Grantaire murmurs.

“I was,” he insists, softly, and Grantaire understands, for the hundredth time, how Enjolras commanded his share of a rebellion--sometimes, it is easier to hear to him speak, to accept his passions as one’s own, than to put forth the effort into pulling oneself from the thrall, and- “I truly did believe that we would have support. But we did not, not enough. And it was I who convinced those men to hold their ground, to take up arms nevertheless. And I have their blood on my hands, and that-” he swallows. “That, I regret. I still do not understand why it is that I did not die beside them, I-”

“Don’t fucking say that,” he grits out, and he hadn’t meant to interrupt, but he could- he couldn’t fucking hear him say that. 

Enjolras pays him no mind. The gallery is empty, now--there is no one to stop him. Grantaire is so grateful and so angry. “It is true. Do you know- I shot several men, that day, but there was- during the battle, there was a man who had been convinced to join the fight, a- a boy, truly, and the National Guard put a bullet in his gut and shot half his jaw off his face and did not even have the dignity to finish the job, and- we did not have medicine, as you do now, there was no healing a wound as such, and-” He draws in a deep, shuddering breath; Grantaire is frozen. “He fell beside me. And he- he  _ begged _ , he begged for me to save him, and his grip was so firm on my- on my ankle that I could not fall back for safety, could not break his grasp, and he would not stop  _ fucking _ screaming, Grantaire, and- And I wanted to shoot him. I should have shot him, but I could not bear to, Grantaire, why can I not-” his eyes are on Grantaire, now, wet with unshed tears and wide and lost. “Why can I not stop feeling it? I feel- I- Every day, I feel blood coming in through my boots, I  _ smell  _ it, why can I not-” He lets out a sob of a breath. “Why-”

Grantaire pulls him in to his chest and holds him close enough that he can feel the steady thrum of his heart. Partly for Enjolras. Partly for the ache in his own ribs. “You’re okay,” he mumbles into his curls, and it’s an empty reassurance, but he thinks Enjolras might sink a little against him, anyways. “It’s-”

“I am not  _ addled _ ,” Enjolras hisses against his shoulder, like a soaked tomcat lashing out only when brought out of the rain. “I am not- I-”

God, if Grantaire doesn’t know. “I know that,” he says, and he braces himself for another flash of cold anger, but Enjolras just draws in deep, shuddering breaths and wraps his arms around Grantaire so hard it almost, almost hurts. And fuck, Christ, he-

He’d  _ known _ , of course he’d known, that the barricades left their mark on Enjolras, of course he’d fucking known, and he knows about the way his clothes, the waistcoat and the trousers and the boots, have sat, untouched, over the back of a chair in his bedroom, but he hadn’t- he hadn’t  _ thought _ , not really, not enough. He holds him closer, buries his face in his hair.

“I’m glad you’re here, now,” Grantaire says, soft. “Like, for the record.”

Enjolras lets out a shaky laugh against Grantaire’s collarbone. “Yes, I suppose you are,” he says. 

The echo of footsteps on marble rings through the gallery; Grantaire reluctantly releases his grasp. “‘M sorry I didn’t-”

“I am glad,” Enjolras cuts him off, “To have seen it.”

“Okay,” Grantaire manages. He watches, out of the corner of his eye, as an older couple makes their way through the room. 

Enjolras sighs, then leans up to press a kiss, lightly, to Grantaire’s lips. “It was good to see you,” he says, and he’s blushing when he pulls back, “Despite- I wanted to see it. The painting. Take no blame.”

Grantaire feels pretty fucking guilty, anyways. “Are you- Are you gonna be okay? I’d leave work if I could, I swear, but we’re short-staffed today, I don’t think-”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I shall be fine. I believe that I shall pass the afternoon at Jehan’s apartment. You needn’t worry.”

“‘Kay.” He doesn’t feel very fucking  _ ‘kay _ about the situation. “I love you?” He tries, because maybe he can get  _ something _ right, and-

Enjolras flushes a little brighter. “Ah,” he says. “Yes, I- I love you, as well.” He shoots a glance around the gallery, and his fingers fidget with the drawstring of his hoodie, but he smiles. “I suppose I shall see you for dinner?”

He nods.

“Good. This is, ah,  _ cool _ .”

Grantaire snorts a laugh. It’s progress. 

That evening, they get Indian takeout and eat it on the couch and Enjolras lets their ankles tangle together on the coffee table. And Grantaire’s taking a break from complaining about his boss to take a few bites of lamb korma when Enjolras hums, and sets his fork down, and says, “Do you know,” he swallows- “Do you know, I really did think that it was only I who- who survived. I did not know-”

Grantaire waits. Sometimes, it’s better when he just shuts the fuck up. Sometimes, it’s easier to just listen to Enjolras, anyways; to watch him.

“Feuilly did research on the painter by way of the google, when he joined Jehan and I after his work. And he- I did not know him well, but- but we did speak, a few times, he-” Enjolras’s throat bobs. “He did escape. Evidently. But he also- He came to have a child, Grantaire, a  _ wife _ , and I had not thought-” He lets out a choked, wet sob of a laugh. It is horrible; it is beautiful. Grantaire sets his plate down on the coffee table and pulls him into his arms. “It is something.”

Grantaire thinks of Enjolras waking up with a ragged gasp for breath, shaking and confused and frantic, no matter what Grantaire does to try and soothe him in the shock of an early morning; of being reassured, of leaving to cook breakfast, only to hear muffled sobs through the door under the hiss of the pan; of catching only glimpses of the barricade, choked out against his chest--grapeshot, and a watch, and prayer, and a horrible silence, just at the end. And.

Yeah. It’s something. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he manages. “That’s- I mean, Enj, that matters, really, like, I don’t know shit about- about stuff like that, but that matters, you know?”

Enjolras nods against his chest.

They sit, like that, for a little while. 

Grantaire becomes, slowly, aware of the fact that Enjolras is inching his hand up and under Grantaire’s shirt, brushing fingertips through the hair there. Fucking-

“Seriously?” He asks, and it comes out half a gasp, when Enjolras shifts his hand a little higher, holds a little tighter.

Enjolras just shrugs, eyes wide and guileless and fucking  _ deceptive _ .

“We’re not even done with  _ dinner _ ,” he says, though he can’t help the way his own grasp tightens around Enjolras’s shoulders. “Are you seriously-”

He has the fucking gall to pull a pout.

God. But hey, fuck, it’s not like Grantaire has any problem pressing Enjolras into the couch cushions. It’s not like he has any particular problem making out with his boyfriend for a little while.

They eat the rest of the takeout for breakfast.

A week goes by, then two, soft and slow, and it grows colder--Enjolras buys crisp apples by the kilogram whenever they go shopping; Grantaire doesn’t quite know how to tell him that he can get them in the winter, too, but maybe he’s just taking advantage of what he can get in the moment. It’s hard to mind, either way. 

Enjolras presses his icy, icy toes to Grantaire’s calves at night, his fingers to Grantaire’s chest, and laughs quietly when Grantaire groans and makes half-hearted efforts to dislodge him. He comes home, speaking rapid, jovial Occitan, with Courfeyrac in tow--or, more likely, being towed by Courfeyrac--arms laden with bags full of coats and sweaters and pants and wool socks, all of which Grantaire is sure costs at least three times more than Courfeyrac ever told Enjolras. 

Enjolras starts writing again, also slowly, also softly. Not just notes--he nabs another notebook from Grantaire’s desk, one evening, and Grantaire catches him scrawling sentences and fragments and paragraphs and pages and pages and pages, during movies and on the metro and at the breakfast table and sometimes (memorably) in bed, when Grantaire had been really, really about to suck his dick and Enjolras had apologized profusely, fumbled for his reading glasses, and scribbled out a few lines before setting the notebook aside and cordially inviting Grantaire to continue.

(God, the fucking nerve of him. Grantaire loves him so fucking much.)

“So,” Enjolras says, one Saturday afternoon, from where he’s perched on the countertop. Grantaire’s weighing out dough for baozi, and he can never quite keep all the numbers in his head, especially not if he gets distracted, but he looks up, anyways. He’s pulled his hair up in a ponytail with a scrunchie Grantaire doesn’t recognize--maybe Jehan made it for him, when he was over at their place that morning. He is watching Grantaire with wide, wide eyes.

He hums, and promptly forgets the weight he’s supposed to be measuring out. Shit. “What’s up?”

Enjolras flushes dark, and his jaw works for a moment before- “Jehan informed me that you might- that you might fuck me.”

H-

He-

Oh, that-

The knife he’d been using to cut the dough, the knife he’d totally just been holding, clatters to the counter; Grantaire swears, jumps back out of the way before it can hit the floor and, like, cut off all his fucking toes. “ _ Hghhckhkngh _ ,” he says, eloquently.

Enjolras is watching him with a look of concern and not much sympathy. 

He hacks a cough. “You talk to Jehan about our sex life?” He asks, when he can manage it.

Enjolras just frowns. “Well, of course I do.”

Of course.

“Of course,” Grantaire echoes, because honestly, that is a little obvious. 

He nods. Of course. 

But- “Do you-” He clears his throat. “Do you… want me to fuck you?”

Enjolras flushes, if possible, darker still. “I have wanted- You must understand, I- I lack in experience, and though I suppose I was aware that, uh, such things were done, I did not truly know what-” He draws in a breath. “I. Ah. Yes. I would like this. If you desire the same.”

Like that’s a fucking question. God, fuck, like Grantaire doesn’t want every single thing to do with Enjolras, no questions asked. Like he hasn’t been dreaming of- of- of burying his face in the crook of his neck and holding him so, so tight, and-

“Uh, yeah, we can- We can do that. At some point.” He wills his heart to stop pounding, wills his fucking dick to  _ behave _ . “Later.”

Enjolras smiles, which doesn’t help anything to do with the situation. “Good. Later.” He kicks his legs idly, watches Grantaire’s trembling hands as he forces himself to run the numbers through his phone calculator again and keep weighing out dough. 

Grantaire forces his gaze back to the dough. 

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

It’s not a big deal, though, he reminds himself, rather forcibly. It’s  _ not _ . Enjolras said-  _ later _ , he’d said, not  _ now _ . He was just… doing that healthy communication shit that Joly is always getting on his back about. He wants Grantaire to fuck him. (Holy shit.) In the  _ future _ . It’s-

This is all still so new to Enjolras. All of it, fucking  _ still _ , but especially anything... intimate. And he’s fucking  _ recovering _ , recovering from some serious fucking trauma, and Grantaire’s trying so, so hard to be a good person, and to not push, because- (He starts rolling out the dough; he can feel Enjolras’s gaze, hot and prickling, on the back of his neck.) Because, he reminds himself, this  _ matters _ . Enjolras trusts him, Enjolras loves him. Grantaire can’t afford to fuck that up by rushing into things and making him uncomfortable. So-

He’ll wait. It’ll probably take a while, before Enjolras wants to do anything, and that’s cool. Grantaire doesn’t even think that he minds, like, at all, not when Enjolras sits up on the counters while he cooks. He’s pretty sure he’d wait forever, if that’s what Enjolras wants. 

And all of that means that Grantaire should  _ not _ be this freaked out about the fact that Enjolras wants him to fuck him. He’s fine. He’s  _ fine _ . 

He draws in a deep breath. When he looks up, Enjolras is still watching him. He’s also eating Grantaire’s baozi filling out of the bowl with a spoon. “You know,” he warns, in what he hopes is a convincing tone, “if you eat all the filling, I’m gonna give you all the lame little deflated ones.” It’s a lie, of course, but he hopes it’s convincing enough to save some of his filling.

“I do not believe that you will,” says Enjolras.

Damn. 

“Yeah, well-” he breaks off. “I’ll-” He’ll-

Enjolras waits patiently and takes another bite of filling. 

Fuck. Grantaire’s totally gonna give him the nice baozi anyways. God damn it.

“How’s Jehan?” He asks, because he knows when he’s lost.

“Oh, quite well,” Enjolras says. Grantaire watches him as he pleats the dumplings, pretty fucking hopeless to do anything else. “Only today, they have achieved one half of a million people pursuing their instant gram.”

He hums, then- “Wait, what?” He runs the words over again, thinks about- “Oh, Instagram?”

Enjolras shrugs. “You know as well as I.”

“Huh. Impressive.”

“I assume so. It’s an awful lot of people to be doing one thing.”

Grantaire snorts a laugh. God, but he loves him.

He keeps pleating baozi and does not think about the way that Enjolras’s hair looks when it’s strewn out, golden, over his sheets and lit up warm by evening light. He does not think about Enjolras’s hand, bony and calloused and strong and warm, too, come to cup at his cheek, and of the feel of elegant fingers on the curve of his jaw, and of Enjolras’s breath coming fast and heady and-

_ Hoo _ .

Ah. 

He clears his throat and glances down at the current dumpling to find that he’s mangled it pretty fucking significantly. “This one’s yours,” he warns, and he expects Enjolras to fight him on that, to make him very, very aware of the fact that it’s his own fault that he forgot how to use his fingers, but Enjolras just startles and tears his gaze away from Grantaire’s shoulders. 

“Pardon?” Enjolras asks. His voice cracks. 

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “Nothing.”

He forces himself to concentrate on the baozi. He’s being ridiculous. He shouldn’t be freaking out about the fact that- that, what, Enjolras is potentially amenable to being fucked at some point in the future? It’s fucking stupid. He’s fine. He’s  _ fine _ . Not only is he fine, he’s  _ waiting _ . Patiently. Because Enjolras needs him to. Because he doesn’t- he doesn’t actually mind doing so, he just has to take a couple deep breaths, or something. He’s fine.

He pleats the last few baozi, sets them to rise in the steamer, and-

And jumps, at Enjolras’s arms around his waist, at Enjolras’s mouth to his neck. Grantaire hadn’t even heard him get down off the counter, sneaky motherfucker. And also, like-

He shivers, leans back against Enjolras’s chest. “Hey, what’s-” He clears his throat. “What’s up?”

Enjolras hooks his chin over Grantaire’s shoulder. “Well, you said that you would fuck me.”

The bowl that Grantaire had been holding hits the counter with a  _ clang _ . He chokes. “Yeah,  _ later _ ,” he manages, because that’s what he’d been prepared for, fucking  _ later _ , and now his heart is pounding like he’d just run a 10K and this isn’t-

“Yes,” Enjolras says, like it’s obvious, “later. After you had finished making the baozi. Which… You are, are you not?”

“Hgck,” says Grantaire. Enjolras pulls back to look at him with concern. He turns to face him, golden, lovely. “Yeah. Uh. They just need to, uh, rise? Before I steam them? But-”

“We can wait until they have been cooked, if you prefer,” says Enjolras, and that is so not the fucking issue here, that thirty-so minutes of difference, but his voice has grown so soft, and somewhere along the line, his hand has convinced its way into Grantaire’s and Grantaire finds himself nodding before he can-

Hold the fuck on.

“Wait. Wait.”

Enjolras waits. This also means that he stops, where he’d been leaning in to kiss Grantaire, and Grantaire has to take a moment to curse himself before he can continue. 

“I thought- I thought you meant. Like. I thought you meant  _ later _ later. Like, six months, later. Not, like, dumpling later.”

Enjolras wrinkles his nose. His shoulders drop, ever so slightly. “Oh,” he says. “I suppose- Alright.”

God, fuck, why does he sound so fucking disappointed? Does-

“Do you  _ want _ me to fuck you now?” 

“Perhaps I do,” Enjolras shoots back, and the challenge is ruined only by the way his cheeks flush. He clears his throat. “I only- Ah. Yes. Perhaps I do.”

Grantaire lets out a long, slow breath. Okay. Okay. He’s cool. He’s not prepared for this at all, but he’s cool. (He’s so, so fucking cool with this situation, his stupid, unhelpful brain adds, unprompted, he’s so unquestionably cool with fucking Enjolras into the mattress that he’s been dreaming about it for fucking  _ months _ , and-)

He’s cool.

“Uh,” he says. “Uh, yeah, then we- we can do that. Tonight. Um. I can- I can fuck you tonight.”

Enjolras smiles, bright and awkward and fucking charming. 

Grantaire’s heart takes to beating way, way too fast to be considered anything fucking  _ near _ , cool, but like. It’s whatever. He does boxing, he can take a little cardio.

They linger in the kitchen as the baozi rise, then steam, and once they’re done, Grantaire puts all but six in the freezer for later, and once they’ve eaten them, they do the dishes, and after that, Grantaire finds himself watching Enjolras pull off his hoodie and settle against the pillows on Grantaire’s bed. 

Christ.

He-

He stares, feet stuck to the floorboards, gaze stuck on the way that Enjolras’s tee shirt rides up at his waist, tugged askew by the hoodie; on the way that the evening light, coming in in streaks through the angle of the window, lights his skin in bronze and gold, alternatively; on the way that his hands smooth down the sheets at his sides, and Grantaire knows, he fucking  _ knows _ that he’s just imagining the tug of familiar callouses against the cotton, but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel the echoes of them again his own sides in anticipation, in sympathy, in  _ fucking _ want, and he- he  _ knows _ he gets to have this, now, gets to touch, but sometimes, it’s like his heart hasn’t quite got the memo, doesn’t know that it isn’t supposed to keep aching away in his chest, and-

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow at him. His heart stutters. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck. 

He lets out a shaky breath. “Hey, are you- Are you sure?” he hears himself say--he could curse himself,  _ does _ curse himself, but he needs- he needs-

Enjolras sighs. Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut. (Fuck, fuck, he’s changed his mind, he doesn’t want-)

The mattress creaks. He hazards to crack one eye open just in time to see Enjolras shuffle forward on his knees; just in time to be almost ready for it when he settles a hand against the side of his neck.

He is very close. He is very beautiful.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire leans into his touch, because he can’t not. “We have established, I believe, that I know my own mind.”

Grantaire brings a hand up to run his thumb over the scar on Enjolras’s forehead. His head spins, a little. “Yeah.”

“Good,” says Enjolras. Grantaire wants to kiss him--he wants to pull that stupid fucking tee shirt off him and kiss him into the mattress, slow and dirty and warm, and- He blinks, pulls himself back to the conversation. “Trust, then, that if you do not fuck me on account of some false idea about my unwillingness, I believe that I shall actually be angry with you.”

He chokes back a sound at the back of his throat. It might have been a laugh. Enjolras, close, has cracked a smile. “Oh,” he says.

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire does the only thing he can do, and kisses him. Enjolras is still smiling when they meet in the middle--their teeth clack together before they find their ground. And his hand is so, so warm on the side of his neck, and he is wiry and bony and solid, when Grantaire wraps an arm around his waist, and he loves him. 

God.

God, fuck.

Oh, God, he’s actually going to fuck Enjolras. Like,  _ fuck _ him.  _ Enjolras _ .  _ Him _ , Grantaire. He-

Enjolras bites him, a little too hard for it to be anything but pointed.

“Ow, hey,” Grantaire says, mumbles, against Enjolras’s lips, “What-”

“You have gotten distracted,” says Enjolras, and then he slips a hand up the back of Grantaire’s shirt, which, like, if he’s trying to keep Grantaire focused, that is totally not the way to do it. “I find it very rude.”

Grantaire snorts a laugh. Dick.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, all soft admonishment, and Grantaire tamps down that tremor of fear in his gut and kisses him, hard and fast. It’s enough to make Enjolras groan, pleased, against his mouth; it’s enough to make him grasp at Grantaire’s back, and this, now, is familiar--this, Grantaire recognizes, and it’s easy to walk them both forwards until Enjolras falls back down on the mattress with a soft  _ thud _ , and it’s easier still to follow the motion through, to straddle Enjolras as he pushes himself up on his elbows, clumsy in the moment. The kiss is broken, and Grantaire- Grantaire thinks that he could just kiss Enjolras forever, and he misses it already, but he also knows that- that Enjolras, inexplicably, wants him shirtless pretty much all the time, and if he takes his shirt off now, he won’t have to stop kissing him later, and maybe-

He pulls his shirt off over his head, rough and careless. It lands somewhere beneath the bed. 

Enjolras’s breath is coming fast beneath him--his gaze, hot, has settled on Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire doesn’t fucking  _ get  _ it, but Enjolras likes the weight that sits around his ribs and Grantaire likes the weight of his gaze, likes the way he reaches up to touch, likes all of it. When he slips a hand up under Enjolras’s shirt his side, also hot, trembles beneath his touch, and he likes that, too, and then Enjolras fumbles to pull his own shirt off, and their hands brush, and God, fucking  _ God _ .

Christ.

Enjolras is shirtless beneath him, stretched out on the sheets, and Grantaire can’t stop fucking  _ looking _ . The scrunchie has half slipped from his hair--his curls are wild, ridiculous, stunning where they lie free.

He-

“You’re really fucking pretty, you know that?” He hears himself say, before he can stop himself, but it doesn’t really matter, then, does it, not if Enjolras already- already-

Enjolras lets out a huff of a laugh, but he flushes, Grantaire can feel it under his skin. “So you have said,” he says, and then he’s touching him again, running a hand over Grantaire’s shoulders and twining his fingers in the hair on his chest, and- “Grantaire, I-” his throat bobs. “I-”

He kisses him. Kisses him, and lets his weight settle solid over him, and he worries, sometimes, worries that he’ll squish Enjolras, like this, but it’s not like Enjolras will let him go, not with the way he’s already got an arm looped around his neck and hand grasping at his thigh, and when his hips kick up against Grantaire’s, Enjolras is already half hard.

Oh, fuck. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Grantaire grits out, because it’s all that he can manage, and it’s not like he meant to stop kissing him, but Enjolras keens at the loss of contact, anyways, ruts up hard, and it’s all he can do to mouth at the hinge of his jaw as he fumbles to press his thigh between Enjolras’s. He’s hard, too, has been hard, and Enjolras smells really fucking good, like that honey conditioner Courfeyrac made him get and like sweat and like  _ him _ , and Grantaire can’t help but to breathe deep against the line of his throat and bury his face in the curls, there, and press kisses, a little too rough, a little too desperate, to the fine skin of it.

(Bahorel will make fun of Grantaire, the next time he sees Enjolras and the soft bruises that will bloom above his collar, but Enjolras will run his fingers over them whenever he passes a mirror and will bite back a satisfied little smile when anyone brings it up, so it’s hard to worry too much.)

Enjolras grinds up against him, solid; Enjolras holds him close, solid, against his chest, one hand in his hair, the other on his ass. (Grantaire thinks that if he asked, Enjolras would lie and say that his hand is on his  _ thigh _ , thank you very much. Or, maybe not--Enjolras has been so much more comfortable around him, lately.)

He never, ever wants to fucking move from this moment, not when he can keep his hips pressed to Enjolras’s. He never fucking wants this to end, wants to stay here with his face buried in Enjolras’s neck and Enjolras’s hands on him and all warm skin against warm skin, and-

“Grantaire,” Enjolras gasps, when he bites a little too hard, even by his own admission, but it’s not a complaint, it’s- “Grantaire, you said-” 

Grantaire’s mind is a little fucked, right now. “Hm?” He manages, though mostly because he’s got his hand on Enjolras’s chest. He wonders- It would be awfully nice to get his mouth on the curve of Enjolras’s ribs, right about now, and then he could- he could suck Enjolras’s cock, if Enjolras lets him, and that would be nice, and Enjolras would run his fingers along Grantaire’s brow, and his cheekbones, and that would be nice, too, and-

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, firmly, and he dislodges Grantaire from his progress. Rude. Grantaire feels a moan rise in the back of his throat that he doesn’t quite manage to suppress, now that his mouth isn’t on Enjolras’s neck anymore. Grantaire stares down at him, bracketed by his arms, and he wants to kiss him, wants to- “You said,” he says, “that you would fuck me.”

And that’s-

That’s-

He clears his throat. “Oh.”

He doesn’t really know how he- how he feels about that. 

(It’s fucking stupid--he’s fucked people before, he’s fucked a ton of people before, he’s fucked people and been fucked by people and it’s never mattered, it’s never caused that anxious churning in his stomach, but. But none of those people were Enjolras, so it seems all that useless fucking experience is lost to him, now.)

Enjolras tugs him down and to the side with a sigh. They face each other, close, on the pillow--Grantaire can’t help but to let his hand linger against the side of Enjolras’s cheek. “You know,” says Enjolras, and his voice is so soft, so caring, “You do not have any…  _ obligation _ , to fuck me. Not if you do not desire to do so. I apologize if you felt as though you had.”

But-

But that’s not the fucking problem, of  _ course _ that’s not the fucking problem. Of course Grantaire wants to fuck him, just- “Are, you, like, actually sure?” he chokes out. And- “Like, I know you- you’re sure, but are you  _ sure _ you’re sure? That you want this? Me?”

He  _ tsks _ , and says, “Grantaire,” and then he kisses him, gentle and brief and easy. 

Grantaire thinks he might fucking cry, or something. He doesn’t know why the fuck he’s dating someone this fucking nice, doesn’t get it, doesn’t- “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, “I never want- I never want to hurt you, and I don’t want-”

“I would not permit you to hurt me.” Like it’s obvious. Like it’s that fucking easy. Maybe it is, fuck, what does Grantaire know? Maybe--and Enjolras reaches up to smooth his hair back behind his ear--maybe he should know that, but his head is spinning, and Enjolras is close and fucking wonderful, and it’s  _ hard _ . “Is this truly what worries you?” Like it fucking  _ isn’t _ obvious.

He shrugs, because it’s a little better than burying his face in the crook of Enjolras’s neck and never fucking leaving. “‘S fucking dumb. I just. Don’t really want to fuck this up, you know?” The words come breathless, but frantic, not anything else. Grantaire curses his chest.

Enjolras smiles, soft and a little sad, and then kisses Grantaire a little harder, a little harsher. “I will not let you,” he says. 

Grantaire draws in a deep breath, and believes him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes. The smile on his lips broadens into something a bit realer. Then, “Sweet man,” he murmurs, inexplicably.

He snorts. “Sure.” He’s not, but, like, the tightness in his throat doesn’t seem to know that.

Enjolras is still fucking looking at him, though, and Grantaire’s not fully hard anymore, but with Enjolras so close he knows he’ll be back up in about a minute, so he kisses him and tugs the scrunchie from his hair and lets his other hand settle on the small of his back, and he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to  _ say _ it, not right now, but he can tell when Enjolras gets it when he smiles, makes a soft noise against his lips.

“You are, ah, ready to rock?” Enjolras says carefully, and-

Christ.

Grantaire has to, um. Deal with that. He pulls away by half a centimeter, a centimeter, at most. “Oh, don’t- don’t say that, that’s not really-” He winces. 

Enjolras frowns. “But Joly said that it meant-” he pauses, and Grantaire can practically  _ see _ the way he’s itching for his notebook, so he just stops him there.

“Joly says weird shit sometimes.”

“I would argue that you and all of your compatriots say  _ weird shit _ all of the time.”

“That’s not-”

Enjolras quirks an eyebrow at him. His fingertips ghost at Grantaire’s fly.

This isn’t an argument that he’s going to win. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man, say whatever weird shit you want.”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, and then he tugs his sweatpants off, all casual-like. Like he isn’t making Grantaire’s head spin, like Grantaire isn’t getting hard again, just from the idea of it. Grantaire scrambles from the bed to fumble out of his jeans--they catch, around his ankles, and he nearly trips, kicking them off, but when he looks up, Enjolras isn’t laughing. He’s staring, his gaze hot and dark and fixed on Grantaire’s hips.

He swallows. Enjolras, on the bed, is all bare skin and wide eyes, and Grantaire can’t do anything but step forward and cradle his face in his hands and kiss him hard and deep. Enjolras kisses back--still a little fumbling, still a bit unsure, but so, so fucking sweet, and Grantaire doesn’t think that he would ever want anything else ever again, this is it for him, this--Enjolras moans and pulls him close with a warm arm around the back of his neck--is all he ever wants to feel for the rest of his god damned life, just Enjolras, soft and strong and golden, with his tongue in Grantaire’s mouth and a hand on the small of his back, and-

Grantaire fumbles behind himself for the nightstand, catches the handle of the drawer and only mourns a little when he has to break the kiss to rummage around for the lube, but Enjolras  _ keens _ , and grasps at his shoulders like he’s breaking his heart, and oh, God, Grantaire fucking loves him, and Enjolras has got his mouth pressed to Grantaire’s, is breathing fast and shallow, and finally,  _ finally, _ Grantaire’s fingers brush the cap of the bottle of lube. He tosses it down on the bed, careless, and lets Enjolras tug him back down on top of him, lets Enjolras kiss him, desperate and sweet.

There’s still the question of- “How much did Jehan tell you?” Grantaire asks, words brushed against Enjolras’s lips. “About-” 

Beneath him, Enjolras is hard against his thigh, but he snickers, breathless and hitched. “I do not believe that you actually wish to know what Jehan and I discussed.”

“What-”

“It was-” his breath hitches, when Grantaire smooths a hand down his side and lets it settle just inwards of his hip- “Detailed in nature.” He bucks up against Grantaire’s hand, lets out a frustrated grunt when Grantaire doesn’t move to touch his cock. “Grantaire-”

Grantaire’s so, so hard, now, just from this, but he needs to- “Did they-” Enjolras grinds up against him, the hot press of his thigh so nearly enough to distract him, but- “Hey, wait, listen, okay?” He tightens his hold on Enjolras’s hip, does his best to ignore the whimper that he gets in response. “Did they tell you that it’s not supposed to hurt? I know- I don’t know what you’ve heard, but Enj-” Enjolras grips at his thigh, and Grantaire can feel every fucking callous on his palm- “Enj, I’m serious, I’m gonna be so fucking careful, I’m gonna make it so good for you, seriously, I-”

Enjolras has the nerve to fucking  _ laugh _ . “I know this. Come now, Grantaire, I trust you well.”

And-

Oh, man.

Oh, man, that’s- And Enjolras is looking at him so fucking earnestly, and Grantaire doesn’t know what the fuck he ever did to deserve any of this, let alone  _ trust _ , but he has to take a moment to press his forehead to the jut of Enjolras’s collarbone and breathe.

Enjolras is tracing the curve of his spine with fine, delicate fingers. 

“Okay,” he says, when he can. “Okay, how do you want to do this?” He lifts his head--Enjolras is watching him, eyes blown dark and wide. 

Enjolras swallows. His hips twitch against Grantaire’s own, and Grantaire doesn’t really care to stop himself from pressing down a little harder, grinding back, just to feel the hot line of his cock, just for the rush of pleasure from it all. “Um. You could. If I were to be on my front, on my knees, then you could- Jehan said that you could be behind me, and-” he breaks off. 

(Grantaire is kind of regretting the fact that he didn’t stop the whole  _ talking about Jehan in bed _ thing earlier on in the process. Oh, well.)

He thinks about that--thinks about pressing Enjolras into the mattress, thinks about sprawling, golden curls and the way he would gasp against the pillows and how Grantaire could bury his face in the nape of his neck and hold him tight and-

Only, he thinks, as he grinds down harder against Enjolras’s hip, maybe, just for the first time- “There’s- there’s other options, you know,” he manages, “Just. It might be easier if we faced each other? Just so I know, like-” Enjolras stifles a moan- “How you’re doing?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I am aware,” he says. Grantaire wants to kiss him. “But I- I rather like the way it feels when you are atop me, Grantaire, when- You are so very solid, I wanted- I wanted you to-” His throat bobs. 

Fuck, hey, Grantaire can work with that. He can- He can-

Christ.

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “Sure.”

Enjolras kisses him, firm and fast, and then shifts to turn beneath his hands, and then Grantaire is pressed up against his thigh, his lips to his shoulder, and oh, God, he can  _ so _ work with this. He fumbles for the lube, fumbles for the curve of Enjolras’s hip, swears when Enjolras moans, gratified just by the thought of it, gratified by  _ something _ .

Grantaire pops open the cap--Enjolras starts at the sound, sharp and plastic, and Grantaire mumbles apologies against his neck, takes a moment to smooth a hand over his side--and only spills a little bit of lube on the sheets in his rush to slick up his fingers, but fuck it, he’ll wash them tomorrow, he-

He reaches around to wrap a hand around Enjolras’s cock, hard and hot and familiar, by now, but still fucking  _ nice _ . (Maybe- Maybe, after this, if Enjolras likes it, he’ll want to fuck Grantaire, will hold tight to him with those strong, lean hands of his and press in and Grantaire will feel every fucking inch of him, all up his spine, and-)

Back to the matter at hand. Enjolras shudders, when he strokes him. He buries his face in his hair, lets himself take a moment to revel in the soft gasp, when he twists his wrist around the base of his cock, then- “I’m gonna- I need to prep you, yeah?”

Enjolras’s toes curl against his shin; he groans, when Grantaire lets his hand still on his cock, just for a minute, just to-

“Enj,” he manages, and his voice cracks when Enjolras reaches back to grasp at his side- “Enj, can I- I’m gonna finger you, just to- to get you ready, can- Enj, can I-” He skims a hand back, around the side of Enjolras’s hip and to the crease of his thigh, and-

“ _ Yes _ ,” Enjolras gasps, “God above, Grantaire,  _ please _ .”

And, well.

It’s not like Grantaire really wants to  _ argue _ about that, and so he doesn’t--he, instead, squeezes a little more lube onto his fingers and reaches down to press his thumb to Enjolras’s hole, keeps the pressure light until Enjolras shudders, and nods, and grits out, “ _ Please _ ,” against the meat of his arm, and-

He slips a finger inside, slow.

“ _ Oh _ ,” says Enjolras. “Ah, you- it-” he breaks off.

Grantaire presses a kiss to his shoulder, to his neck. “Okay?” he murmurs, there. 

Enjolras lets out a shuddering breath; Grantaire can feel him relax, just a little, around his finger. “It is- It-” he breathes in- “It is odd. I- It- Grantaire, I-”

Grantaire presses in a little deeper; Enjolras gasps. “Want me to stop?”

Enjolras shakes his head. His hand clenches in the blankets. “Perhaps if you-” he swallows, and Grantaire can feel it, where he’s mouthing at his neck- “Perhaps-” he says, and then he presses back, restless, and Grantaire shifts against him, and-

Enjolras gasps, and freezes, and his elbow gives out under him, all in an instant, and Grantaire has to fumble for grounding just to stop himself from going along with him when he falls the short distance forward into the pillow. 

He stops. “Enj?” He hazards, when Enjolras does nothing but to draw in a few deep, heaving breaths. God, fuck, he should have been more careful, should have taken this slower, should have-

His train of thought is interrupted by the way Enjolras moans, low and deep and muffled by cotton and very, very distracting. 

He crooks his finger tentatively, gently. Enjolras swears. “Good?” Grantaire asks, because he could kind of use some feedback, here, and Enjolras reaches back to grasp at his thigh, tight, bruising. “Ow,” he says, like an idiot. He doesn’t even think it hurts. He definitely doesn’t want Enjolras to let go, to stop touching him.

“Would you please-” he breaks off when Grantaire circles the spot again, takes a moment to recover- “Grantaire,” He gasps, “Christ, Grantaire,  _ more _ .”

God, but he’s fucking hot. “‘Kay.” And it’s not like he can think to do anything but whatever Enjolras asks, so he slips his finger out, adds a second, can’t help the way he ruts up against Enjolras’s hip at the groan he can fucking  _ feel _ , between the two of them. He lets himself settle against his back, lean his forehead against his spine, which only means that he is pressed close, so close, when he feels Enjolras reach down to stroke himself.

Fuck, he’s fucking  _ hot _ . “You’re fucking hot,” he mumbles, against the back of Enjolras’s neck, and Enjolras has the gall to  _ laugh _ , breathless and choked and beautiful. “‘M fucking- ‘m fucking serious, Enj, babe, you’re fucking-”

“Quite-” he moans, and Grantaire spreads his fingers just to hear it again- “Quite bold of  _ you _ to say, when I have- I have spent-” his breath hitches- “ _ Months _ , Grantaire, thinking of your hands, as such, of your weight on me, I-”

Grantaire hears himself let out a groan. “C’mon, man, don’t-”

“I am serious, I-” he pushes back against Grantaire’s fingers, and Grantaire can’t help the way he bites a little too hard at his neck- “I have spent a great deal of time thinking of your hands, of-” he gasps, when Grantaire twists his wrist a little more than he had- “of your  _ shoulders _ , oh-” he scrabbles at Grantaire’s arm, behind him, at his shoulders, his back, and Grantaire doesn’t really know what to do with the pleased noise that rumbles in his chest, that Grantaire can  _ feel _ , “ _ Please _ ,” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, against hot skin, and he crooks his fingers again, and then again, in time. Enjolras shakes, beneath him--he’s not jerking himself off, anymore, just holding onto Grantaire and making soft sounds in the back of his throat, and Grantaire fucking adores him, fucking  _ God _ . 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and he turns his head from the pillow to breathe, and he’s so fucking beautiful it hurts, “Could you- Another, could you-”

“Uh-huh,” he says, and he adds a third finger, and Enjolras moans, and Grantaire can’t do anything but to press up against his hip, his thigh, and kiss at the side of his mouth, and it’s sloppy, careless, and it’s  _ good _ . 

“Fucking- fucking beautiful, Enj,” he babbles, against Enjolras’s cheek, “I swear, I never- I never liked anyone as much as I like you, God, fuck, I-”

Enjolras kisses him, swallows the words for him as they come. And it isn’t a  _ good _ kiss--the angle is all wrong, and Enjolras is distracted, (distracted by Grantaire’s fingers in his  _ ass _ , Grantaire’s mind provides, unhelpfully,) and Grantaire doesn’t have a free hand to hold his jaw, but he never wants it to end, never fucking wants it to end, not with the way Enjolras keeps moaning against his lips, not with the way his hips push back to meet Grantaire’s hand, Grantaire’s hips, where they grind against him, and God, he’s fucking  _ wonderful _ , curls all sprawled out on the sheets, and-

“Grantaire.” Enjolras breaks the kiss to say it, and there’s something sharp in his tone that catches in Grantaire’s chest, “Grantaire,  _ stop _ .”

He freezes.

Oh, fuck. 

He clears his throat. “Enj?”

Enjolras hazards a glance behind him. “Oh, not-” He sighs. Grantaire wants to  _ fix _ this, he doesn’t- “I am  _ fine _ , Grantaire, I was merely going to-” he flushes dark. “To, ah. You know. There is no need to  _ panic _ .”

And-

Oh.

That’s- That’s less of a problem than he’d been anticipating. “Oh,” he says, sheepish. “Should I-” he moves to withdraw his fingers; Enjolras moans into his arm but nods.

He wipes his hand off on the sheets--he’ll wash them tomorrow, whatever, it doesn’t  _ matter _ . What matters is fumbling for a condom in the drawer of the bedside table, and there’s a heart-stopping, gut-jolting moment, there, when his fingers brush particleboard, when he’s  _ sure _ he’s run out, somehow, never mind how he hasn’t gotten laid by anyone else in, like, a  _ year _ , and then he feels serrated edge and foiled plastic and swears in relief. 

Enjolras, way too fucking far away, keens. “Grantaire,” he breathes. 

Grantaire fumbles to open the condom with lube-slick fingers, bites at the serration but loses his grip, but- “Uh-huh,” he mutters, placating, and he gets purchase, gets the packet open, but-

“Grantaire,  _ please _ ,” Enjolras says, sobs, and fuck,  _ fuck _ , Grantaire is fucking  _ trying _ , he’s moving as fast as he can, rolling the condom on and scrabbling around in the sheets for wherever the fuck he threw that stupid bottle of lube and stroking himself down with it, brief, perfunctory, and then-

And then he’s pressed up against Enjolras’s back, again, and Enjolras moans, says, “ _ Grantaire _ ,” and-

And Grantaire wraps an arm around his waist, and draws in a deep breath, and slowly,  _ slowly _ , pushes in. 

Oh, God.

Really, really, oh, fucking  _ God _ . It’s-

It’s not like fucking anyone else. It’s- It’s-

He presses his forehead to Enjolras’s spine and forces himself to breathe in deep, to stay steady. Enjolras is shaking under his hand; his skin is warm and soft and smooth. His hips stutter forward, unthinking--Enjolras gasps, before he can still them. 

He swears. “How’s-” he swallows. “How’re- Can I-”

Enjolras nods jerkily. “Please.”

Grantaire rolls his hips forward, presses a little deeper with the movement. It’s just- It’s  _ good _ . Enjolras lets out a breathy sigh beneath him. The sun is nearly set, but it shines deep and golden across the line of his shoulder, his cheek, his neck. 

Enjolras presses back against him. Grantaire can’t help but to go with it, to push deeper, and he can’t stop the groan that rises in his throat, either, because he’s pressed flush to Enjolras’s back, hips against hips, ribs against ribs, and he is tight and hot and Grantaire loves him, he fucking loves him, he-

“Fucking- fucking love you,” Grantaire mumbles against sun-golden skin. His hips twitch restlessly, but he doesn’t really- he doesn’t really  _ need _ anything but this, but what he has right here, Enjolras breathing deep and ragged beneath him. And Enjolras moans, then, and Grantaire wants to fucking  _ bury _ himself in the sound, and-

“Grantaire,” Enjolras grits out, “Heaven help me, if you do not fucking  _ move _ .”

And.

Well.

Grantaire can take a hint, honest. He fucks forward, holds Enjolras too tight, it must be too tight, but Enjolras just lets out a pleased hum and relaxes into it. And Grantaire keeps it- he keeps it a little slow, a little careful, and he grinds into him like he deserves any of this, and-

And Enjolras shifts, under him, shoves his hips back, and Grantaire gets his bearings, gets the angle right, and-

Enjolras’s fists clench in the sheets, hard enough that Grantaire worries for the seams. He chokes out Grantaire’s name, or something akin to it, and Grantaire can only do what’s kind and  _ fuck  _ him. 

Even so, it is… gentle, in a way that Grantaire would never have thought to know, before. Thorough, though. Very-

“Tell me if-” he breaks off at a moan, when Enjolras lets him press him down, lets him push his hips almost flush with the mattress and lets him nose at the space behind his ear, “if it’s too much?”

There is a long moment before Enjolras responds, and in it, there is nothing but the steady push of hips and the soft noises that linger at the back of Enjolras’s throat that Grantaire really, really wants to fucking taste, he wants- he wants- “‘T’isn’t,” Enjolras mumbles, against the pillow, and he reaches back to clutch at Grantaire’s thigh, to pull him impossibly closer. (He is so fucking tight, so fucking warm and fucking  _ good _ , Grantaire doesn’t-) “‘S- Oh, Grantaire, it-” his breath hitches, when Grantaire fucks him a little harder, and it’s a fucking effort to keep it slow, like this, it is, but- “It is- is- good, Grantaire, it- you-” he keens.

Grantaire bites at the curve of his neck, at the jut of his jaw. “‘M glad,” he says, and-

Enjolras turns to catch him in an awkward kiss, sloppy and strained at the neck. Grantaire wishes- He wishes he could kiss him better, wishes-

“Grantaire,” he gasps out, “Could you-”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, because he would, he’d do fucking anything for him, honest, fucking- fucking  _ anything _ , he-

“Could you- Harder, could you-”

“Yeah,” he grits out, and he bares down harder, because Enjolras wants it, because  _ he _ wants it, and it feels fucking  _ good _ . Enjolras’s hand has found its way to the back of Grantaire’s neck, to his shoulders, to ruffle the hair at his nape, and he holds Grantaire close to mouth at the skin on his neck, and Grantaire focuses on that, lets his hips hammer forwards and lets Enjolras hold him close and lets himself get lost in it, in the noises Enjolras makes, in the way he says his fucking name, in the warm weight that’s settled in his gut like the gold that settles on Enjolras’s skin.

It’s good.

It is very fucking good.

Grantaire doesn’t know how long he keeps at it before his hips start to stutter, but he- he tries to keep them steady, really, but Enjolras moans whenever they do, so he doesn’t- he doesn’t-

Enjolras’s hand presses into the one Grantaire’s got holding him up, and the shock of it is enough to draw him back to the moment, back to-

“Grantaire-” Enjolras’s breath stutters, too, now- “Grantaire, I do not know- I do not know for how much longer I-” he swears, quiet and rough- “I shall last, I-” 

Grantaire hadn’t even realized how close  _ he’d _ gotten to coming, but- “Yeah, that’s- that’s cool, I-” Enjolras squeezes his hand, and he swears into his neck- “I’m gonna-” He reaches his free hand down to grasp at Enjolras’s cock, hard and leaking and hot under his fingers, and Enjolras moans his name- “I’m gonna come, soon, anyways, you-”

Enjolras gasps when Grantaire grasps his cock a little more solidly, and Grantaire loves him, and- 

He forces himself to draw in a breath. “You should- You should come, you should-”

He nods. Grantaire wills himself to hold on, to keep his hips moving as Enjolras keens, and fucks into his hand, and pulls him down for a kiss that only half works, and then Enjolras is coming, hot and sudden, over his palm and over the sheets.

Christ. 

Oh, Christ. 

He fucks him through it, kisses him over his shoulder and commits to memory ever single fucking sound he makes, and then he draws his hips to still.

He pants, heavy, against Enjolras’s cheek. Enjolras, beneath him, is collapsed flat to the mattress, muscles lax, breath coming deep and shaking and solid. 

Oh, God.

“I-” He doesn’t know what to  _ do _ , doesn’t know what Enjolras wants with him, now, but he needs to come, he can’t- he can’t hold on, now with the way Enjolras had said his name when he came, and he-

His hips stammer forwards, and Enjolras hums, questioning. He chokes back a whimper. “Fuck, shit, sorry, I-” he pulls out, slow as he can manage, gentle as he can. He can’t help but to run a hand over Enjolras’s back, he- “Oh, God, Enj, babe, I-”

Enjolras rolls over; his face is flushed, his hair is wild and askew and beautiful, frizzed gold and catching the sun like it’s a fucking halo, and Grantaire wants him, he fucking- he fucking-

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathes, bleary, soft, and he shuffles to meet him where he kneels, and he kisses him, and Grantaire-

“Love you,” Grantaire mumbles, into the kiss, against his lips.

Enjolras wraps a hand around his cock, jerks him off as he kisses him and lets Grantaire hold on to him as tight as he needs, and he fucking  _ needs _ , and he- he-

He-

He comes. And he loses himself, somewhere in there, gets lost in the feel of Enjolras’s hand and his mouth and in the smell of hot skin and honey conditioner. 

They fall back to the mattress, panting.

Grantaire manages to gather enough sense to take the condom off, knot it, toss it towards the trash can. 

Enjolras curls into his chest. He is soft, and warm, beautiful, and he smiles when he wipes his hand, slick with lube and… sex, on Grantaire’s bare stomach. 

“Oh,  _ dude _ .” Grantaire shoves him away, glares down at the smear, and Enjolras laughs, breathless and shameless. 

God, but he fucking loves him. 

Enjolras curls back against Grantaire’s side, once he can draw a breath without laughing, and Grantaire wraps an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey,” he says, because he’s feeling reckless and stupid and in love, “Hey, why don’t you move all your shit in here with me?”

There is a beat, just a tad too long for Grantaire’s liking, of silence. Against him, Enjolras doesn’t…  _ freeze _ , per se, but he loses a bit of the comfortable slackness he’d found his way into. 

Idiot.

Enjolras draws in a breath. Grantaire winces. “I was not aware,” he begins, carefully, “That you wished me to do so.” But-

But that doesn’t make sense. Of course Grantaire wants him to. “Of course I want you to. Obviously,” he says, and then Enjolras’s brow furrows, just slightly, so- “No?”

He shakes his head. He isn’t meeting Grantaire’s gaze; his finger starts trailing anxious circles on Grantaire’s ribs. “I was under the impression that you-” he shrugs- “wished to maintain a bit of privacy. Or- Of space, I suppose. I did not want to press.”

But all of that sounds like- “Do you  _ want _ to share a room?” And he won’t get ahead of himself, he  _ won’t _ , but-

Enjolras flushes, flits his eyes up to watch Grantaire’s face. “I-” he swallows. “Yes. I would like that. If you desire so, as well.”

Ha. 

Haha.

Grantaire pulls Enjolras in tight, gives him a squeeze that probably hurts his ribs, a little, but, like, “Cool,” he says, and he’s grinning into his hair and Enjolras laughs softly against his collarbone. “Awesome, yeah, fuck, move into my room.”

“You only wish to reclaim your art studio,” Enjolras teases, and Grantaire snorts. “Jehan informed me that it was they who so cruelly converted it into a bedroom; I ought have known that you would seek to revert it, bohemian that you are, but at the sake of my privacy, sir? I am shocked, I-”

He cuts him off with a kiss, and Enjolras is laughing too hard to kiss him back.

Sunday morning, after breakfast, they move all of Enjolras’s clothes and books and pens and notebooks to Grantaire’s bedroom. Or, rather, they move the wardrobe, empty, and then all of the books, and then Enjolras finds the de Balzac he misplaced earlier that month and gets distracted and sits on the bed reading it while Grantaire moves his clothes, but, like, whatever. And speaking of de Balzac-

“How many more books of his do you even have left, anyways?” Grantaire calls, as he gathers up notebooks and pictures and newspapers and articles Combeferre must have printed out from off the internet. 

He doesn’t get a reply--won’t, not until Grantaire is back in the bedroom, not until Enjolras won’t have to shout across the apartment, and- and that’s one of those things that Grantaire doesn’t get, but he gets that it’s…  _ something _ , and it’s not like he minds waiting, anyways.

“Only four novels,” Enjolras says, when Grantaire gets back to the bedroom and drops his reading glasses in his lap. “Oh, thank you. And then I shall have only his short stories and novellas to read. And the plays, I suppose. So in a way, I am nearly finished.” He perches his reading glasses on his nose, but then slides them down like a librarian to look up at Grantaire.

Grantaire snorts a laugh. “Yeah, okay. What happens after you finish?”

He sighs, squints somewhere off into the distance. “Oh, that Kafka fellow, I believe. Jehan tells me that he’s rather good.”

Huh.

Grantaire’s read Kafka.

(Jehan knows that, tricky fucker, always trying to do what’s best for their friends.)

“I’ve read Kafka,” he says, and it almost sounds normal.

Enjolras smiles. “You shall help me with the modernities, then.”

“‘Kay,” says Grantaire, like he isn’t thinking about, like, a bunch of sappy shit. He sets the rest of Enjolras’s stuff down on the nightstand, only- “Hey, do you think we should bring your desk in here?”

Enjolras drums his fingers on the book in thought. “That would likely be best,” he says, “Would you like my assistance in moving it?”

Well-

Yes, technically, but Enjolras is reading, all settled in and everything, and Grantaire can handle a fucking desk on his own, so there’s no need to disturb him. “Nah, I got it.”

He hums, tilts his face up for a kiss. It’s so fucking domestic Grantaire could cry. So he gives him a peck on the lips, and goes to get the desk, and-

Oh.

Oh, yeah, he forgot about-

He forgot about the clothes draped over the back of the chair, gathering dust. The waistcoat, the boots with blood at the seams, and Enjolras hasn’t talked about them, never has, but Grantaire can’t imagine-

Grantaire can’t imagine that this would be one of the things Enjolras would want to bring with him. From what he knows, this is one of those sensitive spots, like a bruise, that Enjolras can’t bear to touch and can’t bear to leave alone, either. And he wonders if-

He clears his throat. “Hey, Enj?” He calls, and his voice stays blessedly even, considering the circumstances. And he waits, and hears footsteps in the hall, and then-

“Yes?” Enjolras appears in the doorway, glasses on the chain around his neck, book in hand. “Did the desk prove too-” He fades off, when he sees where Grantaire’s gaze lingers. “Ah.”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “I just- I was just wondering what you wanted- What you wanted to do with them.”

Enjolras makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Oh.” He pulls his hands, his book, into the pocket of his hoodie. “Oh, I- I-” His gaze flits to Grantaire’s, then back to the clothes. “I-”

Oh, fuck. 

God, fuck, Grantaire should have known he would fuck it up, should have just let it be, let Enjolras figure it out on his own time, not just bring it up like that on a Sunday fucking morning, but he didn’t- “You don’t have to decide now,” he blurts out. “Obviously. You can- Whatever. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I-” he takes a moment to press at his brow. “I- That is- I. I do not think that I could bear to have them discarded,” he says, and there’s such a long pause, then, that Grantaire nearly cuts in. “But-” he breathes, in, and out, and in again, “But I do not believe that I wish to see them anymore.”

And-

And Grantaire may not know what to do when it comes to most of this; he may not have that inherent kindness that so many of their friends do; he may not know enough about philosophy or how to speak Occitan or what the fuck went on in the 19th century, but he-

He can do something about this. He draws in a deep breath. “I’m gonna get a storage bin,” he says, soft as he can manage, because Enjolras is looking just a little bit panicked, “And I’m gonna put it all in there, and then I’m gonna put it on the top shelf of the linen closet, and then- and then you won’t have to look at it, if you don’t want to.” And then, because Enjolras hasn’t said anything, “Okay?”

Enjolras nods. “Yes,” he says. “Please.” He fidgets with the seam of his sweatshirt pocket; his voice breaks, at the end. 

Grantaire kind of wants to hold him, right now, but he settles for pressing a kiss to his temple as he passes and doing what he can to get rid of those fucking clothes. And so he finds a fucking storage bin, and he turns the spare canvases it used to house out onto the apartment floor, and he carefully knocks the dust off of each piece of clothing, and he folds it all into the bin, and he sets the boots on top, and when he snaps the bin shut, he’s pretty sure he hears Enjolras finally, finally exhale, along with it. 

Okay.

Okay.

He picks up the bin; it’s shocking, in its lightness. “I’m- I’m gonna put this away.”

Enjolras nods.

Grantaire hauls a chair in front of the linen cabinet in the hall and from it shoves the old sheets from the top shelf in with the pillowcases on the shelf below and then very, very carefully sets the bin to rest in the empty space. He pushes it all the way back, on the shelf; when he steps down from the chair and pulls away, he can’t really see any of it but the edge. For the best, he thinks. 

Enjolras is on the couch, when Grantaire brings the chair back from the hall. “Thank you,” he says.

And Grantaire doesn’t know how to explain that still,  _ still _ ,  _ he _ should be the one thanking  _ Enjolras _ , not the other way around, so he shrugs and sits down on the couch beside him and holds his hand as he flips through the movies on Netflix. Enjolras scoots a little closer and leans his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Could we summon Indian food, tonight?” Enjolras asks, nosing against the curve of Grantaire’s jaw. “I find myself craving lamb.”

Grantaire hums, faux-pensive. As though he could ever have anything against any of it. 

Enjolras takes the opportunity to nuzzle in deeper, to bite a little too hard for it to be anything but a joke. “Lamb, Grantaire,” he says, pulling back to look him in the eye, excessively solemn. “ _ Laaaaaamb _ .”

He snorts a laugh, which totally fucks up the put-upon sigh he’d been planning to heave. “Yeah, okay. Lamb. Sure.”

Enjolras grins. “Thank you, Grantaire, dear.”

Grantaire flushes, warm and comfortable. “Yeah,” he chokes out, and he thumbs at the scar on Enjolras’s forehead. “Whatever.”

They’re sitting on the couch a few days later when Courfeyrac calls. 

Or, well, that’s not completely accurate. Grantaire is sitting on the couch. Enjolras  _ had _ been sitting on the couch, reading, too, but then he had been reading with his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, and then he had been reading with his head in Grantaire’s lap, and now he is asleep, with his head in Grantaire’s lap and his reading glasses crooked on his nose and his book threatening to fall from his fingers. Grantaire’s been running his fingers through his hair, taking advantage of the opportunity for totally, totally selfless reasons and only drifting off a  _ little _ , and he starts so bad when he gets the call that it’s all he can do to extract his fingers safely and without bringing a few curls with them. 

He fumbles for his phone, answers it swearing, then takes a few moments, once he’s picked up, to smooth Enjolras’s hair again, to make sure he doesn’t stir. “Yeah?” he says, soft as he can manage, once Enjolras has settled, once more, “W’s up?”

“What’s the plan?”

Grantaire shakes his head to clear it. “What?”

“The plan,” Courfeyrac says, a little slower, this time. 

Uh. He doesn’t- “What plan, dude?”

“What-” he hears Courfeyrac say something to someone in the background, but he doesn’t know- he doesn’t know what he’s missed. On his lap, Enjolras hums something and shifts, only to settle back to sleep. He’s a little distracting. “Grantaire. Dude. For the party?”

He tries desperately to visualize his schedule without having to stand up and actually go look at it, but he doesn’t- “What party? I don’t- What?”

There’s a long, long pause on the other line. “Um. Enjo’s birthday party? Grantaire?”

But-

That can’t be right. That’s-

He would-

“It’s Enj’s birthday?” he whispers. Fuck, fuck. Enjolras stirs in his lap, mumbles something, and Grantaire shifts him off in a half-panic, squeezes his way out from under him as carefully as he can. “Courf, wait, Courf, it’s Enj’s birthday?” he asks, again, once he’s locked himself in the bathroom.

“Uh. Yeah? Next weekend. Saturday.”

Oh, God, he would have fucking missed it. “Are you sure? Like, did he tell you?” Why didn’t he tell Grantaire? Why doesn’t Grantaire  _ know _ ?

Court hums. “He hasn’t mentioned it, I don’t think, but, like. It’s on his Wikipedia. And Jehan says he went through the whole page with them complaining about inaccuracies, and he didn’t  _ say _ anything about the birthday it said there, so like. We kind of just decided it was probably right?”

Someone says something in the background--Marius, probably. 

“Oh, Marius says he asked Cosette and Cosette said that she checked and Enj’s birthday’s in the church records in Drôme from 1806. So.”

Grantaire lets out a long, deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Um. Next weekend.” Christ, he doesn’t know why he’s so fucking freaked out about this. He does birthday parties all the time. He’s  _ good _ at parties. It’s  _ fine _ . Just-

“I’m thinking, like, it’s gotta be really good,” says Courfeyrac, and thank God he agrees. “Like, baby’s first 21st century birthday. Baby’s first birthday with us. Ooh, Grantaire, baby’s first birthday with a  _ boyfriend _ , this is  _ exciting _ . We have to, like. Show him we love him, you know?

Courfeyrac gets it. Of course he gets it.

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face and lets some of the tension drop from his shoulders. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah, all that. You’re doing the second half?

“Course, man. You got dinner?”

“Yeah, probably make a-” he thinks, rubs at his brow as he tries to figure out what, exactly, Enjolras would want, and- “-a stew or something, I think. And then something vegetarian, too, I guess, but- yeah. Maybe stew and then a salad-type thing.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Sucker. He’s really got you gone for him, doesn’t he?”

He groans. It’s not like he can deny it. “Whatever. Is Ferre taking care of dessert, again?”

“Uh-huh. Probably gonna go bully some baker somewhere.”

Ha. Yeah. “Okay. Um.” He cracks the bathroom door open, peeks out to see Enjolras still passed out cold. “Thanks, man. I didn’t- I guess I would’ve-

“Course,” Courfeyrac says, fucking kind. “Anytime.”

Grantaire ends the call and goes to sit back down with Enjolras on the couch. 

And it’s like this: Grantaire can’t help but worry that there’s a reason that Enjolras hasn’t said anything about the whole birthday thing. Like, he hasn’t said  _ anything _ , not to Jehan or Combeferre or Feuilly or  _ anyone _ , and Grantaire can’t help but worry-

Well, he can’t help but to worry that Enjolras thinks that they wouldn’t want to know about it. That it would be a burden, or something, which is stupid, because he’s Grantaire’s  _ boyfriend _ , Grantaire is  _ supposed _ to worry about it. And it’s Tuesday, and Enjolras’s birthday is in, like, five days, and he-

“So. Saturday,” he says, which probably isn’t the most subtle way to go about asking whether he’s being a totally shitty boyfriend. They’re walking back from the grocery store, slow and leisurely, side by side, bags slung over their shoulders and in hand. 

Enjolras takes a bite of the apple he’d pulled from the bag as they left the store. “Hm?” He lets a sweatered elbow brush up against Grantaire’s. “What of it?”

Uh.

Grantaire doesn’t  _ think  _ he’s being passive-aggressive. Maybe they do have the date wrong, then, maybe- “Well. It’s. Isn’t it your birthday?”

Enjolras frowns. “No. No, it can’t be, can it? Not-” he pauses, stops walking, there, in the sidewalk; Grantaire stops along with him. “Heavens, is it?”

Um. 

“Um.” He looks very puzzled. It’s fucking distracting. “Courf said he thought it was November second?”

Enjolras considers that for a bit longer than Grantaire would have expected. “Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“That’s this Saturday.”

“Is it really?” He takes a moment to stare at Grantaire in surprise, and also to eat some more of his apple. Fucking dork. 

He nods.

“Well, then. I suppose it is. Funny, that.” He starts walking, again, hitches a bag up more comfortably on his shoulder. 

Grantaire stumbles to catch up. “You- You didn’t know?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Well, I have not celebrated it since I was very small. I suppose that I am more in the habit of changing my age with the new year, as it is near enough to December, anyways.”

“Oh.” That’s kind of… Sad.

“It was a different time.” They round a corner. “So, what is on Saturday?”

“Uh,” Didn’t they just go over this? “Your birthday party?”

Enjolras coughs, chokes on a bite of apple for a few seconds before he can catch his breath. “I- I am to have a… a birthday party?” He laughs, bemused, breathless, but there’s something to the look in his eyes that makes Grantaire’s chest ache. 

Grantaire bumps his hip against Enjolras’s. “Course you get a fucking party. You know that, you went to Joly’s and Baz’s and everything.”

He huffs. “Well,  _ yes _ , but they are-” He stops. His gaze flickers over to Grantaire, unsure. “I-” he swallows. “Oh.”

It takes a fucking lot of willpower not to drop all the fucking groceries on the ground and pull him in close. The wine bottles would probably break, though, so he settles for pressing his shoulder to Enjolras’s and breathing in deep. “Of course you’re getting a party,” he says, again. “Not like you could stop Courf, anyways.”

Enjolras laughs, hazards a crooked grin that wrinkles the corners of his eyes. “No, I suppose not.”

They don’t mention the party again, that night--they go home and they put the groceries away together, and they talk about Feuilly’s gallery opening the week before, but Enjolras keeps biting back tentative little smiles whenever he doesn’t think Grantaire’s looking, so.

So.

Grantaire cooks beef stew on Saturday afternoon, because he’s a sucker. 

They’d gone to brunch, earlier, them and Combeferre and Joly and Bossuet and Jehan, and Enjolras had looked at the mimosas skeptically, at first, but had given in to the concept of day drinking eventually, if only on account of the sheer number of times Bossuet reminded him that  _ It’s your birthday, man, birthday brunch, you have to day drink for birthday brunch, Enjolras, it’s your birthday, Enjolras, birthday brunch _ . 

And, well. It  _ had _ been birthday brunch, after all. 

Now, Enjolras sits on the countertop, softly tipsy, cradling a glass of red wine and eating all the mushrooms Grantaire chopped raw and telling him all about an opera he saw in 1828. “And-” he says, and he takes a delicate sip of his wine- “And I cannot say for certain, whether it was… Now, was it Bellini, or was it- I suppose that it could not have been Rossini, who wrote it, for he had already come to his decline, by that point, and so I do not- Hmm.” He looks to Grantaire.

Grantaire doesn’t know shit about Romantic era opera, but he runs the details Enjolras had told him over in his mind, scrounging for anything Jehan might have mentioned, for anything he might have read, for anything that rings a bell. It doesn’t really help that Enjolras seemed unconcerned to tell him most of the actual plot, focusing more on a tenor who tripped onto the mezzo-soprano in the middle of a romantic moment, but he’s still a little disappointed when he comes up with nothing. “Bet Jehan’ll know,” he offers. The beef’s done searing on the stove--he passes over a scrap that was too small not to cook all the way through; Enjolras offers him a sip from his glass as he takes it. 

“Surely,” Enjolras says, faintly, distracted. 

Grantaire chops onions to add to the pot, goes to grab the rest of the bottle of wine from the counter, and when he comes back to add a splash to Enjolras’s glass, he’s blushing. “What’s up?”

He picks at a chip at the base of the wine glass, absent-minded; his gaze lingers, soft, on Grantaire. “Perhaps-” he says, and he flushes darker. He opens his mouth to speak, then frowns, bites his lip, and tries again. “Perhaps we might go to the opera, some time. Together.” He reaches out, brushes the tips of his fingers to Grantaire’s wrist.

Oh, man.

Grantaire’s stomach flutters. And he really can’t do anything but to step a little closer, to lay a hand on the side of Enjolras’s neck and stand between his legs and kiss him. What the fuck else is he supposed to do? And Enjolras kisses him back, and wraps an arm around his shoulders, and he is warm and sweet and Grantaire adores him. “I- Yeah,” he says, when they pull back by a hair’s breadth, “Yeah, we should do that. Opera date. It’ll be fun.”

Enjolras grins against his lips and kisses him again, just long enough for it to last, and then he buries his smile in Grantaire’s collarbone with a breathless laugh. “I have never been to the opera with anyone else before,” he admits, and Grantaire has to hold him closer, he  _ has _ to. “Can- Can we truly?”

He draws in a deep breath. “Yeah. Truly,” he manages, and then he- he needs to see Enjolras, he needs to, so he cups his face in his hands and convinces him up to meet his gaze. Enjolras is a little misty-eyed; he holds tight to Grantaire’s arm. And, oh, God, he-

“Oh,” says Enjolras, softly, sweetly, smiling, “I do love you, so.”

Oh, man. “Love you,” he says, and he kisses him, and Enjolras sets his wine glass down and kisses him back, and Grantaire could just fucking- fucking stay like this, just this, just his hand in Enjolras’s hair and Enjolras holding him close and kissing him in the warmth of the kitchen, and-

“If you do not finish making the stew now,” Enjolras says, breathless, before Grantaire kisses him again, “You are going to be terribly anxious this evening.” And yet he still wraps an arm around the back of Grantaire’s neck to pull him in closer, to kiss him harder. 

Hypocrite.

And, well. It  _ is _ Enjolras’s birthday. Grantaire figures he can afford to spare a  _ little _ time, like this.

He  _ is _ terribly anxious in the evening, like Enjolras said, but mostly because they ended up falling into bed together while the stew was in the oven and Grantaire hadn’t remembered that he was supposed to be making a salad until fifteen minutes before everyone was due to arrive. He’s still frantically chopping walnuts, hair dripping wet from the shower, when the doorbell rings; Enjolras is in the other room, setting the table and looking extremely rumpled. “Enj!” he calls, “Enj, babe, can you-”

And Enjolras won’t call back, he knows that, but he hears him set a pile of cutlery down on the table and go to answer the door, and- “Oh,” he says, eventually, which is not the way Grantaire would expect him to react to Combeferre bearing cake, “Ah. Um. Good evening?”

Grantaire throws the walnuts in with the salad and pokes his head out of the kitchen to see who’s at the door, to see what the fuck is going on, to see Enjolras and Cosette, staring at one another in the doorway. Cosette is holding a fruit tart and smiling tentatively; Enjolras is doing a particularly uncanny impression of a lizard, stock still and wide-eyed. 

He clears his throat; Cosette looks over to him in relief. (Grantaire has only met Cosette a handful of times, has only had a few conversations with her, but he kind of gets that he might be more of a familiar presence than Enjolras, right now.)

“Grantaire! Hi!” She casts a glance around the room. “Um. So. Marius told me to come at eight-twenty, but I guess that’s not-”

Enjolras still hasn’t moved. 

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. “No, it’s- It’s eight-thirty.” And then, because Cosette is starting to look painfully embarrassed, “It’s cool, though, no worries. Everyone’ll be here in a bit, anyways.”

She nods. “Oh. I guess he typed it wrong in the text?” 

He shrugs.

Enjolras’s gaze darts out to find Grantaire, darts back.

“Anyways,” says Cosette, and she holds the tart out to Enjolras, who doesn’t seem to notice until she continues, says, “This is for you. I told my Papa that he shouldn’t make it, since I’m not the one in charge of dessert, but he wouldn’t let me leave unless I brought it with me. So maybe you can eat it for breakfast, or something.”

Enjolras, finally, looks down, notes the tart, looks back up at Cosette. “Oh,” he says, softly. (Grantaire really hopes someone explained to Cosette that she shouldn’t take any of…  _ this _ personally.) “Oh, I-” He bites his lip, puzzled. (God, Grantaire shouldn’t have sucked his dick, earlier, he totally fried his brain.)

Cosette, bless her, smiles, unfazed. “Happy birthday!” she says. She also holds the tart out to him again, and Enjolras startles, fumbles to accept it. 

“I- Thank you kindly, ah-” he turns to Grantaire, eyes wide, tart in hand, starts to mouth something along the lines of  _ What do I do, Grantaire, what should I- _

Grantaire presses his lips together to keep from laughing and relieves Enjolras of the fruit tart. “Come in. Please.” 

She enters, hangs her coat up on the hooks by the door. “Do you guys need a hand with anything? 

He takes a look around the apartment. It is…  _ nearly _ ready. But- “I got it,” he says. “You should just sit down and-” he prods Enjolras over to the couch, tilts his head to beckon Cosette over- “have an apératif, and I’ll get everything ready.”

Enjolras sits down on the couch and pours a Kir for both himself and Cosette but gives Grantaire a look so mournful that he only barely manages to ignore it, and only for the sake of his salad. 

“So,” Grantaire hears Cosette say, from where he works in the kitchen, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Enjolras clears his throat. “Yes. Ah. I am Enjolras,” he says. “Grantaire’s… boy-friend.” (God, if Grantaire doesn’t make the sappiest fucking face, just then.)

“Cosette,” says Cosette. 

There’s a pause. It’s long enough that Grantaire is considering going back out there, just to rescue Enjolras, but-

“Are you really  _ that _ Enjolras?” Cosette says, suddenly. “From the 19th century?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras. 

“Huh,” says Cosette. “You look just like the portrait. I thought maybe Marius and Courf just went crazy, or something.” 

(Grantaire makes a mental note to ask Cosette about that portrait.)

“Not to my knowledge,” says Enjolras. “Would you care for a biscuit?”

“Thanks,” says Cosette. 

There’s another long pause, then-

“Do you mind if I just ask you, like,  _ three _ questions about your essays?” she blurts out. “Like, I know it’s your birthday, and you can say no, but I just- This is kind of an incredible opportunity.”

Grantaire enters the other room, under the guise of carrying out the salad, just in time to see the shy smile on Enjolras’s face. And, yeah, okay, he thinks, as Cosette starts asking him about the political climate of the 1820s, yeah, they’ll be fine.

He sets the table and listens to Enjolras go on about ex-generals and taxes and farmers and textile workers, and really, it’s only a  _ little _ awkward. Cosette asks him thoughtful, smart questions, and by the time there’s another knock on the door, they’re engaged in soft conversation about things Grantaire’s hardly heard of.

He goes to get the door--Courfeyrac and Marius stand behind it. Marius is sweating profusely and trying very hard to not look like he’s panting for breath. Courfeyrac is beaming--he greets Grantaire briefly with a kiss to the cheek before pushing past him to collapse down on the couch beside Enjolras and sling an arm over his shoulders and talk at him in rapid Occitan. 

Marius wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I-” he starts, sheepish, when he sees Grantaire watching, “I thought the stairs would be faster?”

And.

Okay.

“You texted Cosette the wrong time,” Grantaire tells him, because that was kind of a dick move. He would never text Enjolras the wrong time for something and let him show up before everyone else, he would be uncomfortable. “By the way.”

Marius gulps. “Um. Sorry.”

“You should be more careful when you’re typing,” he suggests. 

Marius lets out a breath that sounds more like a whimper. Honestly, what a weird dude. “Uh-huh.”

Anyways. 

“Marius!” Courfeyrac calls, and Marius takes the opportunity to immediately exit the conversation. “Marius, apéro?”

Grantaire sits down in the chair next to the couch and kicks at Enjolras’s ankles. Enjolras kicks back and gives him a smile so sweet that Grantaire can’t even blame Courf for faking a gag.

It’s nice. 

There’s another knock at the door; Enjolras stands to get it, passes Grantaire with a brush of fingertips to his arm. Grantaire watches lazily as he opens the door, and-

“Oof,” says Enjolras, because as soon as he gets the door open, Combeferre is pulling him into a hug so tight it looks like it might actually hurt, a little. “Oof, Combeferre, good evening.” He’s smiling, Grantaire can fucking hear it, bright and easy in his voice.

Combeferre holds the cake box with ever-increasing precarity in one hand, but this doesn’t stop him from taking a moment to hold Enjolras so tightly his feet lift up off the ground. “Happy birthday,” he says against Enjolras’s hair, and Enjolras squeezes him back, and it’s adorable, but he is seriously,  _ seriously _ about to drop the cake.

“Have you tormented another patissier?” Enjolras demands.

Combeferre walks them both backwards into the apartment. “Only a little,” he says, and Enjolras laughs, and-

Okay. That’s enough for Grantaire’s delicate cake-related constitution--he stands and extracts the cake from Combeferre’s grip before he can drop it. “Hi, Ferre,” he says, once the cake is safely on the sideboard. 

He lets Enjolras go with a ruffle to his hair. “Hey, the stew smells good,” he says, and what he means is that Grantaire is totally, thoroughly whipped, but like. He’s Enjolras’s best friend, too, it’s not like he’s any better. 

“Cake looks good,” he shoots back. “Very… Strawberried.”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, then claps him on the shoulder. “We’re doing apératifs?”

“We’re having blanc-cassis,” says Enjolras. “I shall pour you one. Grantaire, dear?”

He flushes. God, he’s never gonna fucking get over that, is he? “Hm?”

“Blanc-cassis?”

There’s a knock at the door. “Please,” he says, even though Enjolras always mixes them too sweet. (He says it’s because of  _ historical fidelity _ . Grantaire thinks it might just be because he likes his drinks fruity.) 

He gets the door--it’s Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta, all already hanging off one another and already smiling.

“Bahorel and Feuilly should be up in a minute,” says Musichetta, once Grantaire’s given her a kiss on each cheek, “We saw them outside, but I think Feuilly wanted a smoke.”

He  _ tsks _ . “For shame.”

She jostles him. “Dick.” 

He leaves the door propped open by a corner of the rug, lets them all three in and listens as Bossuet tries to justify how it wasn’t his fault, actually, that his hand had gotten stuck in the Metro doors, because he’d been distracted and they should really put a sign up.

“There was a sign up,” Joly argues, as he pokes at Bossuet’s hand, hastily bandaged. “There’s always a sign.”

Bossuet shrugs. “Well. It didn’t help, then.”

Joly rolls his eyes and goes to get Grantaire’s first aid kit.

Grantaire sits down on the sofa--beside Courfeyrac, first, but then Courfeyrac and Enjolras switch after a shared look, so that Courfeyrac is next to Cosette and Enjolras is sat up against Grantaire’s side. Enjolras presses a glass into his hand; Grantaire presses a kiss to his temple. (Courfeyrac coos.)

They chat companionably, especially once Joly finds the first aid kit and the three of them all pile into the armchair--Musichetta and Bossuet squished together on the seat, Joly perched on the arm as he takes an alcohol swab to Bossuet’s hand. Enjolras is talking with Cosette and Courfeyrac--and Marius, technically, though Marius has said about three words to him, total, since he arrived, and two of them were  _ happy birthday _ \--about movies. Or, Courfeyrac is talking about movies; Enjolras and Cosette are both talking about  _ movings _ , probably because Cosette hadn’t wanted to seem rude. (Grantaire kind of likes Cosette. God only knows how Marius managed that one.)

Grantaire finds himself wrapped into Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta’s conversation, concerning the intercom announcements in the Metro. He’s arguing his point--that they should just stop telling people to stop leaning against the doors and save the voice-over money--when Enjolras’s bony ankle twines around his own. He casts a glance over his shoulder: Enjolras isn’t even paying attention, he’s still listening intently as Cosette describes Baz Luhrmann’s cinematic masterpiece.

God, he fucking loves him. Grantaire takes a second just to- just to watch him, to watch the way his fingers curl around his wine glass, to watch the tilt of his head, the way his brow furrows when Cosette mentions ecstasy or aquariums or Leonardo DiCaprio, the way-

Jehan plops down on the couch between them, half on each of their laps. Grantaire hadn’t even heard them come in, but hey, he was distracted. “I have come to wish you a happy birthday,” they announce, smacking a kiss to Enjolras’s cheek. Enjolras leans into it, laughs, lets Jehan take a whiff, and then a sip, of his drink. They smell like pot and cigarettes--they must have met up with Baz and Feuilly outside, joined their smoke break before coming up. And speaking of Baz and Feuilly-

“Bro, I’m fucking starving.” Bahorel claps his hands to Grantaire’s shoulders from behind the couch. “Did you make stew?”

Grantaire rolls his head back to look up at him just in time to see Feuilly roll his eyes. “Baz, honestly,” he says, “We  _ just _ got here, we don’t-” Combeferre hands him off a Kir- “Oh, thanks, Ferre,” he says, and Bahorel takes advantage of the distraction to grab him by the waist and haul him bodily onto his lap in an armchair. He sighs. “Okay.”

“Aw, R doesn’t listen to me anyways,” Bahorel says, into Feuilly’s hair. “It don’t matter.”

Grantaire takes the opportunity to ignore him. Bahorel throws a biscuit at his head. He hits Jehan, instead, who gasps and shoots him a look of utter betrayal and then explains the tragic assault to Enjolras until he snorts a laugh and composes himself enough to pull together a scowl to shoot in Bahorel’s direction. (It crumbles in about a second, makes way for an easy grin, but the effort’s there.)

God, Grantaire fucking loves his friends.

They sit down for dinner once they run out of crème de cassis, and once Combeferre has started glaring at Marius a little too severely. And there’s a bit of a scuffle for who gets to sit on Enjolras’s other side--Combeferre and Jehan have what may be the most courteous stand-off of all time, complete with pointed looks and a lot of eyebrows, and it’s Jehan who releases their hold of Enjolras’s hand eventually, but only on the condition that they get to sit across the table from him, and that they get to sit next to Feuilly.

Enjolras hides it well, but Grantaire can tell that he’s biting back a pleased little smile at the whole affair. He prods him in the ribs--an  _ I see you _ type deal; Enjolras snags his hand and holds it as everyone gets settled around the table. Grantaire’s heart flutters.

They eat, and they drink. The stew is good, thank God, and it’s hot and the beef is tender, and Enjolras turns to him and tells him that it is, “Delicious, truly, Grantaire, thank you,” so, like. He’s pretty fucking proud. And it’s a nice dinner, it’s a really nice dinner, and Enjolras and Feuilly and Jehan and Courfeyrac are talking about philosophy and Grantaire’s complaining about work with Combeferre and Bahorel is explaining to Cosette how he broke his nose and Joly and his lovers are all trying to reassure Marius of…  _ something _ , and that all devolves when-

“No, no, okay, Enjy, it’s like-” Courfeyrac gets up to stand at Enjolras’s side, pulls his phone out, leans over it with him- “Like. It’s like a movie.”

Enjolras squints down at the screen. “You only just said that it was  _ not _ similar to a moving.”

“No, I said that you don’t watch it on the TV. But it’s still video, yeah?” Courfeyrac still sounds hopeful. Grantaire doesn’t even know what they’re talking about, but he knows that it’s not going to work.

Enjolras casts a glance over to Grantaire.  _ Video?  _ He mouths. 

Grantaire snorts a laugh. “Movies are a kind of video,” he explains. “Any picture that moves, that’s video.”

Courfeyrac’s expression drops a little before he can muster it again. “Yeah, okay,” he says, “So, it’s like that, like a movie, but it uses the camera on your phone. Okay?”

Enjolras’s brow furrows. “There is a camera upon my phone?”

Grantaire turns to Jehan for context--“Facetime,” they explain, and, uh, yeah, that’s gonna be a hard one, especially considering the number of empty wine bottles on the table that they’ve all played a part in.

He sits back and talks to Jehan about the newest quilt they’ve got planned and listens to Courfeyrac rope Combeferre into the explanation, and then, when that doesn’t work, Feuilly. Enjolras is stuck on the concept of wifi, which, like… it’s not like Grantaire knows what that is, either.

Enjolras twines his hand with Grantaire’s, again, easy. He rubs his thumb over the back of it as he laughs at Courfeyrac’s increasingly frantic efforts to describe wifi through metaphor. Courfeyrac enlists Marius for assistance. Enjolras is too busy smiling to be too bothered by Marius’s participation, but he doesn’t learn anything more about facetime, either. 

God, it’s all so fucking nice. 

They finish dinner, and Courfeyrac scrambles away to grab the cake before Combeferre can stand to get it, and when he brings it out, he’s written  **_Happy 213th Birthday You Are So Fucking Old_ ** across the top and set the whole thing ablaze with a swathe of candles. Where he got the icing from, Grantaire’s got no idea, but Enjolras laughs so hard he has to take a minute to bury his face in his hands and force himself to stop just so that he can get a few good breaths in.

“I wanted the full 213 candles,” Courfeyrac explains, as Enjolras exhales and wipes a few spare tears from his eyes, and then promptly starts giggling again, “But Ferre told me I could only put fifty.”

Combeferre thumps Enjolras on the back and offers him a glass of water. “Two hundred candles is a fire hazard. Also, you’re only twenty-seven.”

“Good God,” Enjolras wheezes. “Why is it on fire?” (Grantaire fucking loves him, oh fucking God.)

“‘Cause it’s your birthday,” Jehan explains, around a sip of wine, “And you have to make a wish. It’s the rules.”

Enjolras’s brow furrows. “Wh-”

“You have to think of a wish, then blow out the candles,” Grantaire says. “It’s, like, a tradition, or something. I don’t know.”

He scoffs. “Be not ridiculous. What on Earth would I wish for?”

Oh, man.

Grantaire swallows down what feels suspiciously like a lump in his throat. (Enjolras wouldn’t wish for anything, he doesn’t want anything, he’s  _ happy _ -) “It doesn’t really matter,” he says, “Just- I don’t know, something you want. It’s whatever.”

Enjolras cocks his head, shoots Grantaire a look that can’t mean anything but trouble. “I wish that the elevator in this building would break,” he announces, “and that we would use the stairs for their proper use, once more. This is my wish.”

Jehan whoops. Marius, at the other end of the table, looks vaguely fearful; Cosette just looks delighted. Enjolras blows out the candles with a strong breath--and then another, because there are fifty of them, and then another. Fifty candles is a lot of candles.

“It is done,” he says, “I am two hundred and thirteen years old.” And Grantaire still isn’t quite sure he’s got the whole  _ birthday _ thing down, but everyone cheers, anyways.

They get drunk. Courfeyrac seizes bluetooth control over Grantaire’s speaker as soon as the cake is gone, and he plays disco and synthpop and shitty 80’s one-hit wonders, and Enjolras sits, sipping a cocktail, on Grantaire’s lap in an armchair as he opens presents. He’s already wearing the soft wool sweater that Courfeyrac had gotten him, and when Grantaire presses his face to his shoulder, he smells sweet and warm, like honey and wine and sweat and lanolin. 

Grantaire is a little drunker than he’s been getting, lately--his head spins, a little, but it’s nice. Nicer now that it doesn’t quite feel natural. Nicer now that it doesn’t feel like he has to. 

The scrunchie is slipping out of Enjolras’s hair--Grantaire tugs it free, runs his fingers through his curls, pulls it back up into a ponytail for him as he talks with Feuilly about some new book he got him. He gets a kiss to the cheek for his troubles, a little fumbling, a little careless, and Enjolras blushes enough after he pulls back for Grantaire to know that he hadn’t been thinking, hadn’t been planning on doing that in front of people. 

Grantaire grins. Enjolras flushes darker.

Feuilly clears his throat. Enjolras startles, snaps back to the conversation with only a bit of a stammer, but he reaches back to twine his fingers with Grantaire’s as Feuilly describes Jules Verne in a slight slur. 

Enjolras opens the rest of the presents; lets Combeferre ruffle his hair and get a little teary; watches intently as Jehan unfurls the quilt they’d made for him with a great deal of drama and then tucks it so securely around Enjolras’s shoulders that Grantaire has to fumble to rescue his cocktail from the quilt, and the quilt from the cocktail. And that’s the last of the presents, then, and-

Cosette pushes a very reluctant Marius to sit down on the couch beside the armchair. 

Both Marius and Enjolras blanch. 

“Happy birthday,” Cosette says, holding firm to Marius’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” says Enjolras. Marius looks incredibly pink, but that might just be from the alcohol. “Um.”

“Um,” says Marius, vaguely pained. “You should. Check your Wikipedia?”

Enjolras frowns. “My-”

“Your wicki encyclopaedia,” Grantaire mumbles against his shoulder, as he pulls it up for him.

“Ah,” says Enjolras. He takes the phone from Grantaire, squints at the screen, then- then holds the phone back a little farther from his face, and- “Oh,” he says, soft. “Oh, you-”

Grantaire peers over his shoulder, and there it is, in small, black print:  **_Born: 2 November 1806, Drôme, First French Empire_ ** .

“Oh,” Enjolras says, again, after a considerable pause, “Oh, you fixed it, I- It says that I am from Drôme, and not Isère, you- you’ve fixed it.”

Marius shrugs. “We found a couple documents online when we were looking for your birthday, and I was like, well, they wouldn’t have your birthday in the Drôme church records if you were born in Isère, so we just. Did a couple citations and fixed it last night. Cause Courf said Jehan said you were pissed about it, I don’t know, and I felt bad about calling you too intense. And about saying that Grantaire was an acquired taste. And about saying that I thought that you were a sheep farmer in England, ‘cause Cosette said-” Cosette squeezes his shoulder sharply. He stops talking. “Sorry,” he manages.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. Enjolras is bearing a look of extreme confliction--somewhere between genuine gratitude and the strong desire to exit the conversation immediately. Grantaire gets it.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, eventually. “This was very thoughtful of you.”

Cosette beams. Marius looks vaguely less nauseated than he had before.

Hm. Grantaire guesses Marius is… maybe fine. Fine and a little stupid, sometimes, but fine. Especially when he brings Cosette, because it’s Cosette who grabs Enjolras’s hand when Courfeyrac grabs  _ her _ hand to tug her up to dance, and it’s she who tugs him up off Grantaire’s lap, quilt and all, and tries to teach him how to dance to ABBA. 

“So,” says Marius, when it’s just the two of them, and it’s  _ very _ clear that Marius does not wish to be a part of the conversation any longer. And that’s convenient, because Grantaire doesn’t want to, either.

“I have to go get something from the kitchen,” says Grantaire, and he leaves to go talk to Joly and Combeferre on the other side of the room. Musichetta isn’t there, because she’s busy dancing with Cosette and Courfeyrac and Jehan and trying to get Enjolras’s hips to move in a normal manner. It isn’t working, but Grantaire respects her efforts.

The night stretches later, longer, and they all get hammered, all of them--even Combeferre, who is totally a fucking liar, because whatever he’s rambling about with Joly is  _ not  _ the result of  _ just a few glasses of wine _ . It is the result of Courfeyrac’s vodka. Jehan and Feuilly and Musichetta have pulled open one of the windows to let the smoke out--they sit beside it, pressing a joint between each other’s fingers--and the cool air is a welcome shock, against the muggy air of the party. Grantaire rolls his head back on the back of the sofa and breathes in deep.

“No interest in being your boy, my ass,” says Bahorel, and he presses his beer to the side of Grantaire’s face. It’s kind of nice. 

He looks over. “Huh?” Bahorel sits on the couch beside him, watching Enjolras and Courfeyrac dance a clumsy gavotte to Johnny fucking Hallyday.

Bahorel takes a sip, winces. “This is nasty, dude. Nasty beer.” Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face, shrugs. He didn’t fucking buy it. “Anyways, I was totally fucking right. I  _ told _ you that he wanted to be your boyfriend so fucking bad, didn’t I? Like, two months ago, dude, admit it.”

Grantaire thinks back to that night--thinks back to Enjolras, under the dim lights of the bar, looking at him like he was the only fucking thing he  _ wanted _ to look at; thinks back to the weight of him on his back, Enjolras smelling of blue curaçao and the blood running down from his knee and murmuring things against his neck that used to make his fucking heart ache but now just make him feel impossibly fond; thinks back to holding his hand for the first time that had nothing to do with the grate of centuries-old streets, to the ugly fucking glow of the metro golden like a halo against his curls, to fucking- to the way he’d slurred his way around devotion and sacrifice and fucking love, and-

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Well, I’m an idiot. So.”

Bahorel laughs. “Nah, bro, just kinda stupid, sometimes.”

That doesn’t make any sense. He laughs, anyways. Bahorel pushes the hair back from his forehead and holds his beer there for a couple seconds. “Not like you were much better,” he shoots back, tilting his head towards Feuilly, leaning against the wrought iron of the window railing, legs tangled with Jehan’s.

He snorts. “Yeah. Well.” (Grantaire knows perfectly well what that means--he’s spent enough evenings half-blackout with Baz to know exactly how long he’d been horribly, desperately, utterly in love with Feuilly, how long he’d needed a shoulder to cry into about it, six beers in. Grantaire knows. He fucking gets it.)

Grantaire nudges him in the ribs. “Hey,” he says. “But, like. Worked out, though.”

Bahorel looks back over to Feuilly, gaze stupid soft. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Oh, Christ. Grantaire shoves him off the couch, pushes him in the direction of the window. “Oh, go hang out with your boyfriend, already. Fucking sap.” He watches Bahorel settle down at Feuilly’s side, picking his way past three sets of sprawling legs, watches Feuilly smile softly and kiss him and press the joint to his lips, after.

Okay, so they’re fucking sweet. Whatever. (Grantaire bites back a grin that threatens to escape, anyways.) And he’s busy watching them, the way they speak, too quiet for him to discern, between one another, and he doesn’t even notice that Enjolras has left Courfeyrac’s side until he’s standing in front of him, taking up his hand in his own.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, and he presses Grantaire’s knuckles to his lips, and Grantaire’s heart fucking stutters. “Grantaire, dear heart, you must dance with me.”

Grantaire’s still pretty stuck on  _ dear heart _ . “Huh?”

He tugs at his hand. “You must dance with me. It is my birthday, Grantaire, you  _ must _ .”

The music is something sythy and horrifically 80’s and terribly sappy. Grantaire doesn’t even think Enjolras would know what to  _ do _ to it. “Oh, yeah?” he prods, like he wasn’t fucking convinced the second he asked. 

“It is my  _ birthday _ ,” he says again, and he tugs a little harder. Grantaire fucking adores him. 

“It’s his  _ birthday _ , Grantaire,” Courfeyrac calls, from across the room. 

Yeah, yeah.

He lets Enjolras pull him to his feet--they only stumble a little, in the process, and they’re holding hands already, anyways. It isn’t a hardship to wrap an arm around his waist; it isn’t a hardship to let Enjolras drape an arm around his shoulders. Grantaire’s just glad he doesn’t have to let go of Enjolras’s hand--he thinks, oddly, that it might just break his fucking heart to do so anytime in the considerable future.

He noses against Enjolras’s temple. Enjolras holds him closer, sways along with the steps. Grantaire laughs, soft. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, do you?” he murmurs.

“No,” Enjolras admits with a huff of a laugh to match; he’s a little off-rhythm, a little clumsy in his hold. “But it is nice, is it not?” 

Yeah.

Yeah, it’s fucking nice. Yeah, it’s just about the fucking nicest thing Grantaire has ever known. Yeah, he feels like his heart might just give the fuck out, that’s how nice it is. 

He swallows. “Yeah,” he says. His voice cracks.

They keep swaying, softly. Grantaire shuts his eyes and lets himself revel in the way Enjolras holds him close, in the feel of Enjolras’s hand in his own. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, eventually, because he has to. Enjolras hums. “I love you a lot, you know that?”

He can feel Enjolras’s smile against his cheek. “Yes, I know it,” he says back. Grantaire squeezes him a little tighter. He can feel Enjolras breathing steady--against his chest, against his neck. He stumbles, a little, over someone’s forgotten sneaker; Grantaire catches him before he can even fall from their embrace. “And-” he presses a kiss to Grantaire’s cheek, or maybe he just lingers there, wine-slow, drowsy. Grantaire doesn’t even think the difference matters. “And you know that I do as well?” he says--whispers, really. Just for Grantaire to hear.

“Yeah,” he says, because he could think of a great deal of things, just then, but he doesn’t really need to, doesn’t really need to think about anything but this, now, here. “Yeah, I know.”

They hold each other close. The music plays on.

Yeah, Grantaire thinks, again. He knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: there's sex in this one. pretty lengthy emotional sex. if u want to skip it, it starts after the baozi scene and ends with "Oh, dude." it's tender, it's soft, it's not super plot relevant. do what u like.
> 
> anyways. uh. i can't believe that this is DONE! i! wow! it's been a long time coming! a giant thank you to everyone who's been following this fic along the way, or just to anyone who get all the way through lmao. ur comments and asks and messages kept me going, and i'm so grateful! please comment! let me know what you think! i am deeply in love with every single one of you! i will respond to every one of your comments, unless you tell me not to, because i am full of love and appreciation!!! 
> 
> also, go follow me on tumblr! @dannypuro ! i will continue this universe because i love my boys! stay tuned! stay in the loop!
> 
> and if ur going to @ me about the ending: YES it's sappy YES it's fucking cheesy but u know what? they deserve it! it's been 99000 words! they deserve a fucking slow dance! they deserve it! /I/ deserve it! YOU deserve it!

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://dannypuro.tumblr.com/) for updates/to say hi! ask me questions! bother me a little! i don't post all that much but i AM around!


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